If
by EOlivet
Summary: While on leave in 1915, Matthew is summoned to the house by another letter that could change his life, and alter the future of others close to him. Pre-2x01 AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Julian Fellowes and ITV. No copyright infringement is intended._

_Timeline: 1915. Post-1x07, pre-2x01 AU._

_Acknowledgments: To OrangeShipper, smndolphin and my sister for liking this idea enough for me to attempt a third multi-chapter story._

_A/N: A year ago today, I posted my very first DA fanfic, and I wouldn't still be writing were it not for the support of this amazing fandom! This is a concept the show already tackled, but I'm moving up the year and changing the context, which will hopefully lend it some measure of originality._

* * *

If

On the second morning of his second leave that year Matthew woke up with a strange sense of homesickness. He looked around his room at Crawley House with a detached, dispassionate eye – missing his old room in Manchester. After months and months away from anything familiar or comforting, it seemed he felt the absence of _home_ more acutely than ever.

Downton was not home. Or if it had been – or could've been – it was no longer.

He now viewed Crawley House as a kind of small hotel where his mother stayed. The world that had been Downton had shrunk to fit inside those walls. Beyond them, it simply didn't exist – or couldn't, not anymore. When he returned, he consigned himself to be in imprisoned within that space again. Ironically, he was unable to leave while on leave.

The men talked of home – of familiar streets and sights, of beloved places and people. Matthew envied them, for his memories of home were even more faded and remote, and worse still, even more inaccessible. His men could return to a life that had been put on hold when they left, not one thrust upon them, which offered little security or comfort.

In his darkest moments, he was ashamed to admit he dreamed instead of his future home. He wished for a place to call his own with some sweet girl with whom he could make quite a comfortable home. How he wanted that normal life he'd always envisioned, and a normal girl with which to share it – both far away from the stuffiness and unease of Downton.

But of course, it would do him no good to think of any of that now. He told himself these musings had increased in frequency due to the fact that the days had been getting longer – with only sporadic activity on the front lines. They were stuck in a stalemate of sorts – waiting for the other side to blink first. One couldn't help but think too much at times like these.

Thinking was certainly preferable to waiting. He'd grown so very tired of waiting.

As he sat down to breakfast, giving a corresponding nod to his mother's subtle smile of acknowledgment over her teacup, he was struck by a sudden wave of irritation. The angle of the sunlight seemed to hit his eyes directly through that particular window. The cushions on the chairs were too soft. Even the tea tasted different (stronger or slightly stranger than before).

"Good morning, Matthew," his mother greeted, almost unnecessarily. "I trust you slept well."

He refrained from mentioning how the mattress was too firm and the blankets too thick and the window too far from the bed to provide the room with any kind of adequate light…

Clearing his throat slightly, he obediently replied, "Yes…quite well."

It was what his mother wanted to hear, after all. She certainly had no desire to know that after spending months and months in barely human conditions, he'd sooner go back and sleep there. Men had labored countless hours to construct the trenches he now called home. They weren't merely gifted to him by someone else's charity.

"I'm heading down to the village before I go to the hospital," his mother remarked, her tone laced with hope as she looked at him expectantly. "You could join me, if you like. The fresh air might do you some good."

He gave his mother a look. and intoned, "Perhaps later," in an attempt to clarify his feelings on the matter. Matthew was just as likely to go down to the village as he was to go up…elsewhere.

Still, it seemed he could do little to put a damper on his mother's cheerful disposition. "Very well. Suit yourself," she declared, as she spread jam onto her toast.

He swallowed his mouthful of tea (along with a comment that the toast tasted dry) just as Moseley entered the room with a silver tray.

"There's a letter for you, Sir," the man stated – and Matthew felt a flash of annoyance. Gone were the days when he could retrieve his own post without having it served up to him as if it were some sort of exotic breakfast accompaniment.

"Thank you, Moseley," he muttered after a moment's hesitation, and a stern look from his mother across the table.

Slitting open the envelope, he removed the paper emblazoned with the familiar crest and let his eyes wander over the letter – trying to suppress the familiar chill that accompanied the request.

He took his mother's louder than usual stirring of her tea as an unspoken prompt, as he informed her, "It's from cousin Robert."

They exchanged a look as his mother raised her eyebrows. "Really? What does he want?"

Matthew's brow furrowed as his eyes scanned the page again. "Doesn't say. Apparently I'm to meet him this morning at the house."

"Well, you can't blame him for wanting to see you, Matthew – it _has_ been almost a year," his mother put in, not very helpfully.

He folded the letter again, replacing it in the envelope. "Really, Mother – I doubt he wants to ask after my health," Matthew scoffed, with another sip of tea to soothe his nerves. His cousin clearly had some sort of news to impart – news that could only be delivered in person…

Swallowing heavily, his eyes unconsciously traveled to the window. That uncertain future he'd imagined began to ebb in his consciousness – and the sweet, unknown girl was replaced by the repressed memory of another, infinitely more familiar girl. It was almost a shock to remember her after forcing himself, _training_ himself not to think of her at all.

Matthew blinked rapidly, and the vision disintegrated into the too bright sunlight shining off the shiny silver tray and into the slightly odd tasting tea.

With a final sip, he squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. He wished he could shirk his duty and ignore the summons. But the minute he set foot back on these grounds, he became just a different sort of soldier, waiting for orders as always.

After breakfast, he and his mother both headed out the door, leaving each other to their expected tasks. "Well…please give cousin Robert my regards," she offered – hesitating for a moment as if this was his first day of grammar school and she was considering accompanying him for moral support.

"Of course." He paused a moment before catching her eye and saying "Thank you, Mother," with the utmost sincerity – as if those three words could adequately express his gratitude.

She nodded before heading off towards the village as he ventured off alone in the opposite direction, feeling as if he was marching into a different kind of battle. When the house first came into view, it seemed to look larger than he'd ever seen it. Had it always looked so imperial? Perhaps there was a reason (well, _another_ reason) why he'd not been up here in so long.

All the Downton rituals he'd suppressed came flooding back: the feel of the stately bronze door and the appearance of Carson – looking no worse for the wear since they'd last spoken. The familiar, yet unfamiliar "May I take your coat, Lieutenant Crawley" and the more familiar "His Lordship is waiting for you in the library."

His new army title and manner of dress made Matthew feel even more out of place. It was as if Downton existed independently of the war, and he was bringing the trenches, the blood and squalor of the real world into this fantasy palace.

Even his cousin Robert's uniform appeared foreign to him, as the two exchanged pleasantries, a swift clap on the back and a firm handshake.

"Have a seat, Matthew," Robert suggested, sitting himself down at his desk where he appeared to be ineffectually shuffling through some papers with a weary look on his face. "I'll come right to the point…"

* * *

Matthew rose from one of the red settees with a dry mouth, slightly damp palms and a name on his tongue that he'd not heard spoken in years.

He stumbled out of the library nearly in a daze – so preoccupied by his conversation that he'd actually exited the far side door and into the hall. The great room shone with the early morning sunlight, and he was reminded of his first visit to Downton almost three years ago – when it all looked so regal and imposing, and he wondered how he might ever fit in with this place and these people.

Three years later, the house seemed to be akin to some grand stage where he'd been tapped to perform a role and now—

Something stopped him, as he drew to a halt in the center of the room. The feeling was so subtle at first that he barely noticed it, but…no, there it was again. Someone was watching him.

A thoroughly ingrained mixture of curiosity and dread settled over him at this familiar sensation of exposure. He had to fight against his instinct to take cover, and remind himself that he was here now and it was no good hiding from anything (or anyone) at this point.

Slowly, he turned round and saw the unforgettable silhouette reflected in the glass door. Keeping his head down, he slowed his approach, as if walking were a monumental task. However desperately he tried to avoid that familiar face (those eyes) it was no use. For an instant, he'd managed to keep his gaze on her hand resting against the door…taking in her skirt and the light, almost translucent material of her blouse—before his head jerked up and suddenly, he was staring at Mary.

It was as if not a day had gone by – in all the best and worst ways. All he could do was offer her a kind of smile in greeting, remembering exactly what had happened the last time he'd seen her.

She pushed open the door, as he stood a respectful distance away, and all of a sudden, she was in front of him – in the place where they had once been formally introduced three years ago. Then, she had stood with her sisters, barely looking at him. Now…he really would've rather not known whether she was looking at him or not.

"Hello, Matthew." Her voice was low and too familiar, and he realized it had been a year since he'd heard her speak.

Clearing his throat, he replied, "Hello, Mary."

"How are you?"

Swallowing any residual feeling that seemed to have risen into his throat, he reminded himself of the news he'd just heard, which would surely render him invulnerable to her charms. Still, there was an almost peculiar softness to her voice that he couldn't bring himself to process at this moment.

"Alright, I suppose," he answered, truthfully - well, as close as he could come without lying.

"Of course we read about it in the papers, but…I can't imagine they give the most accurate account."

All at once, Matthew felt an onslaught of homesickness for his fellow soldiers, for the trenches and order of war. There, he knew his place – which was more than he could say for this place.

"It's nothing—" He met her eyes, then looked away before continuing, "Nothing…anyone should worry themselves over. I'm perfectly fine." After a moment, he cleared his throat. "I suppose I should be asking how you— how _all_ of you are." The remark carried a bit more weight now, but still maintained the veneer of polite conversation.

Her lips turned up in a half-smile. "We are quite the same," she replied. He must have been giving her a rather incredulous look, for she seemed to shrug slightly – her eyes darting to the side. "In a manner of speaking. I assume Papa has told you."

"Yes, I've…just come from speaking with him." It was almost a relief to be talking somewhat normally once more.

She was silent, her hands clasping in front of her – her expression revealing almost nothing, just as he remembered.

"Quite so," she stated, steadfastly avoiding his eyes as she finished speaking. "Well, I...don't believe anything has been decided yet."

Matthew wanted to ask her what she thought of the situation, but he felt strangely ill equipped to handle her answer – whatever it might be.

"I can...only imagine there have been varying reactions from—"

He was distracted for a moment as he heard the door behind them open once more, and when he turned round, suddenly Edith had joined their party, looking quite out of sorts.

She first turned her attention to him, with what appeared to be a polite smile. "Oh – hello, Matthew. I can only imagine why _you're_ here."

"Edith, please." Mary's smile seemed to be pushing the boundaries of her tolerance – as if she was trying to offer as gentle a rebuke as she could without causing a scene.

Her sister, however, did not seem to share that interest. "Well, why else would he be?" she asked Mary pointedly – before turning to Matthew. "What do _you_ think of all this?"

"I'm…not sure what to think…" he offered, suddenly feeling caught in the middle of a disagreement he had no intention of joining.

Stepping forward, so she was almost at his side, Edith declared, "Because I for one think it's terrible! It's just terrible!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake…" Mary muttered under her breath.

At this, Edith shot her sister a glare, before continuing in that softer, gentler tone. "I don't think it's right...what Papa is doing. And it doesn't make any sense when he doesn't even—" Stopping herself, she seemed to realize she might've overstepped her boundaries, though she hardly needed to finish the sentence.

"That's…very kind, but I assure you it's quite unnecessary." He felt himself stepping back almost unconsciously wanting to distance himself from both of them. "I…probably should be getting back." He glanced at Mary, who seemed to nod imperceptibly.

But Edith would not be deterred. "But...perhaps you'd like to stay for breakfast? It's been such a long time since we've seen you." Now she looked directly at her sister. "Hasn't it, Mary?"

Mary's face appeared completely serene – save for an odd twitch of her lip, like some sort of nervous tic. She then smiled, that bright, pleasant smile he'd seen her reserve for visitors, and he felt the urge to simply walk out the door and never look back.

"I'm sure Matthew knows he's always welcome here," she seemed to declare to no one in particular, least of all him.

"Not for too much longer, if the rest of _you_ have anything to say about it," Edith shot back.

As much as he hated it when they paid attention to him, he found a conversation being conducted with no effort to include him equally unnerving. He was about to say something when he was suddenly aware of the uneasy silence that had abruptly settled over the room. The two sisters were now both staring across the hall and all he could do was watch what they were watching.

No one spoke. He could see Mary and Edith shift their gazes to the other end of the hall and back again. Matthew followed their eyes as he felt a shudder run through him. It was as if he was back in the trenches, waiting for an enemy attack, only…

Once more, he straightened his posture and walked across the hall to the man standing awkwardly outside the dining room. He was not quite as tall as Matthew, but appeared almost gaunt in comparison. He looked slightly older, though his eyelids were darkened with what appeared to be lack of rest. Indeed, the man seemed to be a victim of the same inadequate sleep that had plagued Matthew himself.

He obviously didn't recognize Matthew, nor did Matthew find him at all familiar. Well, except for the one thing they had in common.

After all, it wasn't as if this was a completely new development. About a year ago, it seemed a near certainty that this role would no longer be Matthew's to play. But then things had changed – _he_ had changed – and now he couldn't honestly say whether to be potentially relieved of it a second time felt more like a blessing or a disappointment.

Donning a smile of acknowledgment, Matthew held out his hand, which the man accepted in a tentative greeting. As he gripped the man's hand, Matthew could feel the last remnants of his previous future slipping away into the walls of that cavernous room, in that imperial house.

"Patrick Crawley, I presume," he greeted the man who would displace him as heir.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so very much for all your reviews – I cannot tell you how much I appreciate them! And thank you to OrangeShipper for her support for this chapter._

_Please note while some aspects of this Patrick may seem familiar, he is English and therefore not the same character from 2x06._

* * *

Mary felt as if her lips had been frozen into a smile as she watched Matthew and the other man shake hands. For a moment, she forgot where she was – her eyes drawing back and lingering on Matthew, trying to drink in his appearance and store it in her memory. It was as if the past year had simply melted away now that he was here again.

"Patrick Gordon." He seemed to be staring at Matthew with a curious expression, as if he was trying to place him somehow. "Were we…in the same unit?" he asked – indicating their similar military attire.

The words allowed Mary time to recover her senses, and she quickly hurried over to the two men – hearing Edith in hot pursuit behind her.

Matthew looked understandably confused, but pressed on. "No, I… I don't believe we've met. I'm Matthew Crawley." His voice was as entrancing as she remembered as he released Patrick's hand. "Of course you'd not remember me."

"But…should I have done?" Patrick was saying, and she could see him almost shrinking away, withdrawing back into himself. He was technically older than Matthew, and yet he seemed very much like a lost boy in that large hall.

"Well, my…my father was cousin Robert's third cousin, and—"

"Cousin...Robert," Patrick repeated, and Mary winced as she spotted that familiar terrified shock that seemed to have been Patrick's permanent expression since the previous evening.

"Please, not this again," remarked Edith under her breath, with a roll of her eyes – but Mary's only concern was cutting off the conversation as quickly as possible.

Before Matthew could say anything further, Mary had drawn up to Patrick's side. "Matthew is your cousin Robert's— Lord Grantham's new heir." She tried to ignore the perplexed look on Matthew's face as she spoke to Patrick in what she hoped was a slow, calming tone.

Placing a hand on Patrick's arm, Mary offered her most tolerant smile. "Edith, why don't you take Patrick in to the library? I think Dr. Clarkson might be in there already." There was no hint of suggestion to her tone.

"I don't see why _I_ have to!" Edith cried in protest.

Mary ignored her sister – instead focusing her attention on Patrick. "Perhaps it will look a bit more familiar this morning," she encouraged him.

"Yes…alright," muttered Patrick, distractedly glancing at the scowling woman to Mary's right. For a moment, the scowl faded and Edith's eyes shone with what could only be called encouragement, before Patrick blinked and looked quickly away. Edith's eyes then narrowed as the two made their way out of the hall – leaving Mary alone with what appeared to be a rather confused Matthew.

She could see his expression now registering a slight dawning awareness as he watched them leave, and Mary stole another opportunity to gaze unguardedly at Matthew once more. But when he turned back towards her, she forced a polite smile over her painfully constricted heart.

"Is he…" Matthew started – and stopped with a glance towards the library. "Is he ill?" His voice had dropped to a low, almost secretive tone.

With a noncommittal twist of her lips, Mary sighed. "We're not sure."

"Is it his memory?" Matthew asked – working it out, as he always did. "I can only assume this is what your father meant when he said…" He seemed to hold his breath, as a strange look passed over his face. "That there might be… 'complications'…"

Nodding, she confirmed the obvious. "He doesn't…remember much, I'm afraid. He knows…who we are, but not…who we _were..._to him." She paused, trying to lend some measure of weight to what was by far the most ridiculous portion of this whole affair. "Living in the county, he knows about the Granthams, just not…his role in the family."

"Your father said that…" He moistened his lips, seeming to find it difficult to speak. "..._Patrick_ only remembers the last six months?"

"That's partly why Papa sent for Dr. Clarkson. He thinks it might be shellshock."

"And he calls himself Gordon..." Matthew's voice suddenly grew very soft, and she almost had to struggle to hear him. "But he...is Patrick? _Your _Patrick?"

Hearing him referred to as hers sent a strange chill through Mary. Still, she silently weighed her options – wondering exactly how much of her suspicions she should share with Matthew. "Papa is trying to get copies of his records – he wasn't _from_ Downton…" She realized it wasn't exactly what Matthew had asked, and finally revealed, "But he certainly appears…familiar, yes."

"I see." Matthew's tone seemed decidedly neutral, holding neither relief nor disappointment. "Well that's…good news for your father, then. The rightful heir is restored." A half-smile accompanied his words, but she couldn't gauge its sincerity.

"Such as he is," she quipped, drily. Suddenly, she couldn't help herself - she had to know. "But...Matthew, when last we spoke…" Hesitating, she almost winced, recalling their parting words. "You talked of returning to Manchester. "

He met her eyes, and she knew he was recalling that conversation just as vividly. "Yes," he said, simply.

"So, this is...good news for you as well?" An unintentional wistfulness crept into her voice.

"If I—" For a moment, he seemed almost flustered. "That is…after the war. Yes, I….think that'd be best for everyone." There seemed to be an unspoken question at the end of his sentence, and Mary didn't want to think of all he might be asking.

"You'd have your life back," she finished, trying to force her lips to form a smile. "And…you could be happy."

For a moment, he looked directly at her – her cheeks aching from the effort of smiling when all she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and beg him to stay. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option for either of them.

"I think…we'd all be happier if things were as they were meant to be."

_As they were meant to be._ The idea had such a sad finality to it. He didn't want to be the heir – he never did, she reminded herself. He'd told her he wasn't a puppet, and now he no longer had to be. This would be a release for him, and...he would be free. Free of them. Free of…her.

Blinking rapidly, she managed an "Of course," as her breath caught in her throat. "Well," she coughed, slightly. "If you'd excuse me…"

"Yes, I should be getting back as well," Matthew added almost hastily. His eyes then found hers again, holding her gaze. "It was…good to see you."

Her smile was genuine as she replied, "And you." As he turned away, she blurted out, "You'll come back?" before she could stop herself. At his understandably puzzled look, she hastily added, "That is…I'm sure the rest of the family is anxious to see you." All she could do was smile placidly, as if she didn't care one way or the other whether she saw him again or not.

His skeptical look did not exactly inspire confidence. "Are you certain that'd be wise? I would think…the family might want some time to themselves after…this."

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, as brightly as she could. "After all, you're still part of the family…no matter what happens." The words sounded foreign to her – but she clung to them with a steadfastness she'd lacked for all these years. If all Matthew could be to her now was a family connection…it was at least something.

He nodded again, but said nothing more. She watched him turn and silently start back across the hall, trying to imprint his image onto her memory.

With a sigh, she then headed for the library – not trusting Edith to be Patrick's sole chaperone for any length of time. Her sister had shown a remarkable amount of mistrust – verging on hostility – towards him when he'd turned up the previous night.

As she entered the room, she noticed Dr. Clarkson and her father rising from their seats and heading to the corner of the room. The man who looked like her cousin was perched anxiously on the edge of the red settee, while Edith sat in a chair in the corner, glowering at all of them.

When she saw Mary, she got up and immediately joined her sister – almost as if sitting so close to Patrick was causing her some kind of physical pain.

"What did Dr. Clarkson say?" Mary wanted to know, lowering her voice so as not to be heard.

Edith blew out an exasperated breath. "Just a bunch of questions. Once again, he _claims _not to remember us. Told that same ridiculous story he told us about being a shellshocked soldier working in the county recruitment office until somebody from the village recognized him and brought him here."

Mary ignored her sister's commentary. "Did Dr. Clarkson say…when he might recover his memory?"

Now Edith rolled her eyes. "Of course, there's no way to know for certain." Sarcasm dripped from her voice as she continued, "He _did_ mention something about those closest to him—"

"Mary?" Turning round, she saw her father approaching them. Once he seemed certain he had her attention, he lowered his voice. "Dr. Clarkson thinks it might be best if you sat with Patrick. Just…talk with him for a bit."

"Talk with him?" Mary repeated, feeling slightly discomfited. Unlike Edith, she didn't wish ill on the man, but she and Patrick had never been what one might call close.

"Why Mary? Because they were engaged?" A horrified Edith turned on her father, biting out the last word out in a sneer.

He turned to his younger daughter with a look of infinite patience. "Mary spent the most time with Patrick before he…left," her father finished, awkwardly. "Dr. Clarkson feels, and I agree that if he'd remember _anyone_…it'd be her."

Mary snuck a glance at Patrick, who still sat sullenly by himself. Edith was not exactly keeping her voice down, so she had no doubt he had heard practically every word of the conversation.

"Who's to say he'd remember Mary – she didn't even _like_ him!" Edith protested, growing desperate.

"Edith…" warned her father, as if he was speaking to a small child acting out in front of company.

"And besides, he isn't _our_ Patrick! _Our_ Patrick would know—" She cut herself off with a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a sob. "It isn't him." Tearfully, she stormed past Patrick and out of the room.

When she was gone, her father turned his attention back to Mary, lowering his voice so they could no longer be overheard. "I spoke with Matthew this morning – did you happen to see him?"

Now it was Mary's turn to draw in a breath. It was so strange to think of – Patrick and Matthew under the same roof. The two potential heirs to Downton, both soldiers – perhaps having unknowingly fought alongside each other.

Clearing her throat briefly, Mary nodded. "Yes, I…I've just come from speaking with him."

"Poor fellow. He seems to be taking it rather well. It's an impossible situation." Her father seemed to be thinking aloud.

Mary's eyes fluttered shut briefly – remembering the last impossible situation into which Matthew had been placed almost a year ago. "Indeed," she offered, neutrally.

Her father was giving her a strange look that seemed to be halfway between sorrow and pity. "Do you think this might be for the best? After all, Matthew didn't seem too keen on remaining here once the war ends, did he?"

Glancing briefly at the floor, Mary then met her father's eyes. "You'd have to ask him yourself, Papa. I really couldn't speak to his future plans." Her voice remained remarkably steady, as she then walked away before he could notice her hands, twisted together and slightly shaking.

She took a seat on the chair opposite the settee where Patrick was sat, staring blankly at the wall – taking the opportunity to really look at him. She hadn't been lying to Matthew when she said he really did look like Patrick. But it had been so long since she'd _seen_ Patrick. Perhaps Edith was right, and there really was no way to know for certain.

"Does…anything look familiar?" she asked, as kindly as she could – marveling at the fact that three years later, she was being _kind_ to Patrick. Somehow, she felt some sense of atonement for her past mistakes. He wasn't a horrible person. She had simply not wanted to marry him.

He shook his head, inclining his head slightly to the empty chair Edith had occupied. "She doesn't like me," he commented, flatly stating what appeared to be obvious.

Mary couldn't help a slightly sympathetic smile as she responded, "I wouldn't say that." If only it _had_ been as simple as Edith not liking Patrick.

Patrick remained silent for a moment, seeming to process this information. Then suddenly, he whipped his head in her direction and she found herself staring into his eyes. They were dull, almost lifeless – yet she thought she could see a bit of a spark desperately trying to ignite itself from within as he spoke. "Is it because I…" He tiptoed around naming himself with a cautious hesitation: "Is it because…Patrick Crawley was engaged to you?"

The bluntness of his question should've been a shock, but with how loudly Edith had been talking, she could hardly blame the man for exhibiting the same lack of tact as her sister.

After she'd gotten over her surprise, only then did the content of his question seem to register, and she almost laughed at the tragic absurdity of it all. "Well Patrick…Crawley never proposed to me," she found herself answering honestly. There was a hidden sting to those words, as she was once again reminded that only one person had ever asked her that question – and it wasn't Patrick.

"Then…how were we—were you engaged?" His voice rang with genuine curiosity, and Mary supposed it wasn't exactly an unreasonable inquiry.

With a faint smile, she smoothed out her skirt, addressing her answer almost to her lap. "There was…an understanding between our families." It was funny how it sounded so civilized now, compared to back then, when it had made her so unspeakably angry to have her life decided for her.

Now she didn't want to admit how it was almost tempting to simply surrender to the course in life that had been plotted for her since birth. Tempting, but…

She didn't know how her thoughts had managed to transmit themselves silently through her expression, but he seemed to sit up a little straighter, and Mary found herself almost leaning further back as he did so.

"I…suppose that makes some sense," he mused, quietly – now turning his eyes to the doorway. "You're the only one who's been kind to me."

Mary almost recoiled, startled by his unthinking, unknowing words. "I assure you, that's not the case—"

"You're...not married..." He said it slowly, as if trying to work it out for himself. His eyes seemed to shine with a dim sincerity as he added, "And we...had an understanding."

Her eyes closed almost reflexively – her heart flaring with a pain that she doubted would ever abate. But she forced herself to pry her eyes open, to at least glance at him. "That's right. We did." She said it flatly, as if it were nothing more than a statement of fact.

He said no more, but continued to look at her as she silently fixed her gaze on her lap. This man with no past was asking after her future. Of course, he couldn't mean anything by it – not really. They had no way of knowing whether or not he was sane. Or whether, despite all outward evidence, he was really Patrick Crawley.

An heir with no memory of his own family. Surely, he would scandalize her own family enough to somewhat shield them from any scandal she might one day bring down upon their heads.

Then again, if he _was_ Patrick…he _had_ been prepared to marry her before. Three years ago, she'd despaired at the idea of her family home passing to a complete stranger, and three years later nothing had really changed. Perhaps now it was only fitting that she end up with someone who had no idea who _she_ really was.

Her thoughts then shifted regretfully to Matthew, who clearly wanted to be released from this obligation – from…her. The least she could do for him now was grant his wish for happiness.

As for herself, she'd lost her chance at love. But perhaps she'd not lost her chance at Downton.

Closing her eyes briefly in resignation, she looked up before slowly meeting the man's eyes once more.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Many thanks to all who reviewed! I so appreciate your support!_

* * *

Matthew had not exactly been surprised to receive cousin Robert's second letter of the day – this time inviting him to dinner. The man had sent numerous letters during Matthew's previous leaves, all of which had gone ignored. But for some reason he couldn't identify, he felt as if he _had _to be there now. The role had been his for three years, and it seemed only right. He had to see it through to the end.

However, if the mere act of traveling up to the house felt strange, dressing for dinner now seemed downright foreign to him.

Granted, his dress uniform was not exactly white tie, but the peculiar civility implicit in such formalities wasn't something he particularly held onto while in the trenches. On the contrary, he'd tried to distance himself from that life as much as possible. Apparently now, he appeared to have gotten his wish, he thought as he made his way down the stairs.

His mother was seated on the settee in the sitting room with a cup of tea and her novel, but her look of pride was undeniable as he entered.

"You look so distinguished," she gushed, uncharacteristically before her smile abruptly faded, and she glanced back down at her novel. "Which is more than I can say for any of them."

"Mother…" he protested, already weary of this argument. Apparently his mother had heard talk in the village, and had it confirmed by Dr. Clarkson when the man had returned from the big house.

Now she put down her book. "Well, forgive me, Matthew - but you uproot your entire life for three years until they find a man who resembles the former heir and suddenly you're expected to step aside?"

"You speak as if they had a choice," he insisted. "Patrick Crawley _is_ the heir."

"_Was_ the heir," his mother reminded him, stubbornly.

Ignoring his mother's commentary, Matthew continued, "If he's returned, they can't exactly refuse him."

His mother sat up even straighter in her seat. "But it's not even certain this man _is_ Patrick Crawley. Yet they all just blindly welcome him back without a care for anyone—"

"Really, Mother – you mustn't act so surprised. It's not as if this is the first time this has happened…" He trailed off, as if he needed to be reminded of the last time his future was in question.

Seeming to understand his sudden silence, his mother's expression softened a bit. "That was different. But you realize they've not even received his records, and…" Pausing a moment, she continued in a more measured tone. "Until they do, I'd like them to show _you_ half the faith they've already shown him."

"It's nothing to do with faith," Matthew tried to reason with her. "The man _is_ Patrick – nearly…all of them recognized him."

"But not _all_ of them."

Matthew leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek – somehow finding a verbal response to her steadfastness inadequate. "I do wish you'd reconsider."

She smiled at him, placing a hand near his hairline that was hidden by his cap, as if she meant to muss his hair like she did when he was a boy. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I owe them nothing. And neither do you."

He straightened with a small conciliatory smile, and was about to make his way to the door when his mother added, "What does Mary think about all this?"

Giving her a look as if it was an answer, he merely left without another word.

Now, as he was standing in the drawing room barely moving a muscle, he felt as if he was some sort of guard more than an active participant. At least it appeared to be a smaller party. Understandably, cousin Violet had been left out of the loop (he figured she'd find out soon enough) and Sybil was apparently attending a funeral – or so he was told.

Cousin Robert stood next to Patrick by the mantle – the older man's dress uniform a sharp contrast to Patrick's standard military attire. Patrick still looked completely out of sorts (and equally out of place). The man observed everything with a terrified curiosity, as if he'd somehow stumbled into a completely foreign land, where he knew neither the customs nor the manner of dress nor even the language. Matthew had to admit it was a look he'd worn himself before.

His attention then drifted away from the two men, and towards the open door. Cousin Cora was speaking to Edith about something or other, so that only left…

Swallowing heavily, he reminded himself there was nothing to dread about any future encounter between him and Mary. In fact, all pressure had been lifted now that it appeared he was no longer the heir.

Whatever else happened, he was all but certain he held no interest to her now. It was a fact he'd accepted ever since that warm, sunny afternoon of their year-ago parting. But if he _had _to be here, her friendship would be a great…comfort, though it made him slightly uneasy to think of her in such a way. His relationship with Mary had been many things – but _comfortable_ had never quite been one of them.

Then suddenly, there she was – a vision dressed in black from head to toe, as if she was in mourning. Her fingers were linked together in front of her with a casual elegance. If anyone belonged on this stage, he thought – if anyone was born to play this role, it was her.

She glanced over at him, and he noticed a crease in her forehead – her lips pressed together into a cordial smile that seemed to falter, then broaden as he met her eyes. Halfway into the room, she paused in the middle of it – still holding Matthew's gaze, even as she seemed to be heading towards where Robert and Patrick were standing.

Matthew almost didn't hear someone sidling up alongside him until it was too late. "You do realize they were engaged."

At the sight of her sister, Mary turned and headed towards her father. "Mary and…" Matthew began, his eyes sweeping over her as she sidled up alongside Patrick. As if she could feel his gaze, she looked up – whereupon he promptly glanced off to the side.

"It was all settled," Edith went on, though she seemed to be looking in the same direction as he'd been. "Had been for years." Her tone was tinged with bitterness as she spoke. "They thought they were somehow being discreet, but everyone knew what our families had arranged…"

He could almost feel the tense, nervous energy radiating off her in waves, and he allowed himself a brief look back at her. "I can't believe Mary took too kindly to to that sort of...arrangement," he replied, chuckling more anxiously than he ought to have been.

Matthew thought of Mary loudly lamenting her marital fate over the dinner table in poorly hidden metaphor, and quietly confessing doubts over her future over the dimming lights of a fairground.

She'd never allow it, he decided. Not the Mary he knew anyway.

"Why wouldn't she?" Edith seemed to sneer back. "It's all a game to her, and Downton is the ultimate prize."

He was about to respond when that same peculiar sensation of being watched came over him again, and he turned to see Mary heading towards them, that bright smile firmly affixed to her face.

Cautiously, he looked back and forth between the two sisters – who almost appeared to be in some kind of silent standoff. "Edith, I believe Mama is looking for you," suggested Mary. Though her voice suggested sweetness, her arch expression also seemed to suggest a challenge.

Edith was silent for a moment – holding her sister's stare with an insincere smile. With a final glance at Matthew, she stalked off, leaving him alone with Mary in the corner of the room.

They were silent for a moment, before she turned to him. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the doors then opened.

At that point, Carson, who was practically the stage manager in this little play of rituals, instructed them all to take their seats. Dinner was to be served, Mary was heading for the dining room and the moment was gone.

* * *

There was the swift click of the door behind them as all the ladies filed out into the drawing room, but there was no way Matthew could relax as he'd done before. How was he supposed to have a glass of port with cousin Robert, who he'd not seen in a year, and the man who was taking his place in these ridiculous rituals to which he'd never quite grown accustomed? What was he expected to say…to either of them?

As he sipped his wine, he surveyed Patrick – who had a slightly glazed look. His glass remained untouched on the table.

He'd been all that way through dinner, Matthew noticed – quiet and withdrawn. They'd seated Patrick to Mary's right, while Matthew was stuck at the end near cousin Cora. Much to his dismay, Edith's words kept ringing in his head every time he saw the man lean over to speak to Mary.

Had Patrick and Mary been…engaged? Mary had never mentioned it. They'd all talked so little of Patrick – as if he was some untenable subject, or one that simply ceased to exist once he was gone.

"So…Patrick…" Robert made no effort to hide his hesitation. "How did you enjoy dinner?"

It wasn't a difficult question, yet the man looked almost terrified – as if he would be tossed out of the house on the spot were his answer found unsatisfactory. "It was…quite delicious…?"

Matthew took pity on the man, who appeared to be practically shaking. "I'm sure it's…rather different than your usual fare. Cousin Robert mentioned you…were a lodger at an inn not too far from here?"

His hunch appeared to be correct, as Matthew could see Patrick's shoulders visibly begin to relax. "Yes, that's right. They took me in when I…didn't know anyone." A trace of a smile now appeared as he spoke. "When they saw I was a soldier…well, they said it was their duty."

"Sounds rather more like kindness than duty," Matthew put in – still slightly uncomfortable at the latent connotations the latter word still held for him.

Robert nodded. "I agree with Matthew. But whatever the circumstances, we're very thankful for your health." He then paused, glancing first at Matthew for a moment before turning his attention to Patrick. "Did you have a nice chat with Mary this afternoon?"

At this, Patrick seemed to brighten somewhat. "Yes, Lady…er…cousin Mary was…very kind."

Vainly, Matthew tried to control his reaction as he sipped his wine. From what he'd observed, Mary had seemed polite and distant to Patrick – showing neither warmth nor coldness, though he certainly knew how changeable she could be. How she behaved at dinner was no indication of her feelings, as he'd found out before.

Patrick continued, "Lord Grantham, I...can't pretend I know…or remember anything about this place." Again, he seemed to grow almost skittish at the mention of it. "But I want to assure you if…I am who you say…then I intend to uphold the honor of Downton. I'll not shirk my responsibilities."

Matthew happened to catch Robert's eye across the table and the two of them shared a nod at the familiar refrain. Patrick's positivity seemed a direct contrast to Matthew's stubbornness when the role had first been conferred upon him.

"I'd expect no less," Robert finally managed in reply.

"Thank you, my lord." Interestingly, Patrick didn't seem to bother with the less formal titles when speaking to Robert – though Matthew couldn't exactly blame him on that score. "I'm glad we understand each other. And I shan't let you down."

Robert paused for a moment before responding "I'm...quite certain that you won't." After another sip of wine, he placed his glass back on the table. "Well, no need to keep the ladies waiting." Reflexively, Matthew stood to follow him, with Patrick a few moments behind as they filed back into the drawing room.

But as they entered the room, Matthew fell into step behind Robert and Patrick, waiting until Robert claimed his familiar chair and Patrick claimed a seat on the settee next to Mary. Matthew then chose a seat near Edith, feeling unsettled for some strange reason.

Patrick was talking to Mary, and slowly that niggling feeling of unease began to prick at the edges of Matthew's consciousness…

"Did I not tell you?" Edith remarked, leaning in to address him as she inclined her head towards where Patrick and Mary appeared to be having some kind of quiet (yet intense) discussion.

Suddenly, Mary's eyes found Matthew's. She'd noticed him staring, and he quickly looked away as Carson entering with the drink tray provided a welcome distraction.

"He mentioned she was…kind to him this afternoon," Matthew replied, to Edith or himself or no one in particular.

Cora sighed then glanced back from Robert to Patrick. "Did you gentlemen get a chance to catch up?" Her tone seemed neutral, albeit friendly.

"Yes, I'd say we _all_ got a chance to catch up." Robert glanced at Matthew, as if to be sure he knew he was still included. With a small smile, he turned his attention back to Patrick.

Patrick's eyes shifted towards Mary once more, and Matthew shifted in his chair. "You've been…so kind, Lord Grantham...Lady Grantham," Patrick replied, barely audible. "This has all been rather…overwhelming. But I meant what I said – I'm eager to do my duty."

"Of course," was Robert's genial reply.

"Thankfully…there is one thing that I can do on that score…" Patrick continued, pausing for a moment before he finished. "I am prepared to renew the previous arrangement with cousin Mary."

"What?" Edith cried, and Matthew was saved from his own reaction when she drew so much attention to herself. All he could hear were Edith's words from earlier – a harbinger he'd refused to acknowledge now echoing on a constant loop. _They were engaged._ He didn't dare look at Mary…or anyone.

Robert seemed incredulous, yet cautious in his response. "Well, I—I admit this is rather unusual."

"Unusual? Oh, is _that_ all?" repeated Edith, aghast.

"Edith, please," Cora warned her daughter, before turning to Patrick. "I must say this does seem a bit…sudden. It's not…generally something one discusses in public…" Her words seemed a gentle rebuke, though her tone was measured – as if she was speaking to a small child who didn't know any better.

"My dear Lord and Lady Grantham," Patrick began. "If I am indeed…Patrick Crawley, then you must admit this is the honorable thing. The heir must marry the eldest daughter to ensure the estate continues within the family. Don't you agree?"

Matthew attempted to sit as straight in his seat as possible, rubbing his lips together so his expression would reveal nothing when four pairs of eyes involuntarily seemed to shift towards him. His mother had been right – he absolutely should not have come.

Robert cleared his throat, attempting to regain some control over the proceedings. "Patrick, of course we appreciate you thinking of the family—"

"Thinking of the family! Is that what you think this is?" Edith seemed to be able to do nothing except reiterate her father's words as if she was truly flabbergasted they were even being spoken. Then without warning, she turned towards him. "Matthew, what do _you_ think of all this?"

Cora turned to him with a warm, yet insincere smile. "Forgive me, Matthew…" Then she directed her attention once more to her daughter – her gentle voice imbued with a barely detectable sharpness. "Edith, I'm not certain that question is quite appropriate in this circumstance…"

As Edith and her mother continued to quarrel as politely as possible, Matthew resolutely continued to avoid anyone's eyes – most of all those of the two people seated on the settee. At least Patrick had grown quiet, as if he now appeared to realize his error in judgment. Though Matthew couldn't help but wonder if it really was an error…

"What does _Mary_ think of all this?"

He had seemed to speak almost without thinking – the voice of his absent mother ringing out into the room. As the attention now focused on him, Matthew suddenly knew why he couldn't answer his mother's final question before he left.

He didn't know the answer himself.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback - it means a great deal to me to receive it!_

* * *

Somehow, Mary had successfully managed to blend into the settee where she was sat. Patrick was next to her, but seemed to look right through her – and he was the only one paying her any attention.

She wished she could've said she was as shocked as the rest of the family appeared to be, but truthfully the only surprise was that Patrick had blurted out his intentions in public. Even that…well…who was to say what constituted normal behavior for a shellshocked amnesiac soldier anyway?

But she'd known – or at least inferred what he might be thinking – from their conversation that afternoon, and while she'd done nothing to outwardly encourage him, she hadn't exactly discouraged him either.

Indeed, she appeared to have little choice. Every day that she remained unmarried only increased the odds that somehow the secret of her scandal would find its way further into society, rendering her unprotected and her reputation unsalvageable.

And yet…

Yet, it might as well have been three years ago (or more), for how little her feelings had changed. Despite how imperative it was for her to marry someone – anyone – and it might as well be Patrick, since Downton could be hers…still she could not bring herself to think of it.

That is, until Matthew's question.

Her eyes jumped to his neutral gaze where she only imagined a hint of pleading. Patrick was now looking at her as well, and she glanced back and forth between them before she broke into what she hoped was a somewhat amused grin. "Well, I really couldn't say…" she deflected, brightly.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Grantham," Patrick interrupted, now seeming utterly confused. "But I thought we understood each other, when I said I'd talked to cousin Mary, and that I would fulfill my duty."

"Your duty…" Edith now muttered under her breath, and Mary saw Patrick sneaking a glance at her sister as she spoke.

Mary could also see her mother taking this opportunity to seize control of the situation once more. "I think we've all had a very long evening. Perhaps this is something we could discuss later." She seemed to be gritting her teeth through her upbeat smile.

"I quite agree," her father chimed in, despite seeming relatively nonplussed about the situation.

Mama's smile was fixed firmly in place, especially now that she had regained control. "Carson, would you see that Mr...Gordon's room is prepared?" Her mother's gaze then drifted to Matthew. "Matthew, do you need the car brought round?"

"No," answered Matthew, standing quickly. "I…think I'd rather walk." He was already heading for the door. "Thank you for a…lovely evening."

As her mother and father chorused their goodnights, Mary found herself unable to take her eyes off Matthew. With Patrick returned…Matthew had no reason to come back. She might never see him again, she thought – her breath drawing in sharply. If he was no longer the heir, then…when he returned to the front…

All she could do was stare at the door – visions of another long-ago dinner party swimming before her. The last night he'd thought her affections lay with another man. How it had taken them months to repair their already tenuous relationship.

She pressed her hand to her mouth as discreetly as she could, trying to reign in the emotions that had suddenly overtaken her. "Excuse me," she stated, rising from the settee and hurrying out into the hall. Her mother's voice behind her was already a faint echo, and Mary was determined this wouldn't happen again.

By the time she reached the foyer, she was practically running, and the door had slammed indelicately shut behind her.

She saw William moving to open the door to the outside, but the noise from the hall had startled him and Matthew.

"M'lady? Is everything alright?" William asked her, wearing that same concerned expression that seemed to be permanently etched upon his face. Matthew, however, wore one that was slightly more guarded.

Her eyes flitted to Matthew – as if the power of her stare alone could will him to stay. But seeing as she was in front of the servants, she instead put on her most serene smile. "Of course. Thank you, William."

The subtle authority in her tone was not lost on William, who gave a slight deferential nod before making himself scarce.

She'd stopped Matthew at the door, and now all she could do was hold his gaze, as if that alone would be enough to keep him there. But it had never been before, so she was forced to fill the silence herself: "I…wanted to apologize..."

Somehow, all she could manage was the unfinished sentence – which now hung in the air between them, laden with undefined meaning.

"I don't believe any apology is necessary," he replied, and her heart tightened at the vagueness of his words before he added, "It's a rather…unusual situation."

"Still," she continued, as airily as she could – as if they were merely engaging in normal conversation, "that's no excuse for us to forget our manners."

His lips turned up slightly as he nodded, though it seemed more a gesture of acknowledgement than him actually agreeing with her. She could see him inhaling slightly, his lips parting further as he spoke. "You…didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I?" she replied off-handedly, offering a rather poor attempt at feigned ignorance.

Whatever light shining in his eyes seemed to wane at her flippancy, and now when he looked at her, it was as if he was looking beyond her. "I just…need to know that you'll be happy." That this…" He glanced towards the ceiling, and back to somewhere behind her. "_This _will make you happy."

Tears threatened at Mary's eyes, but she held them back, holding herself together in front of him and forced a smile over her words. "Why wouldn't it?" Her smile widened further. "Everyone knows what I've always wanted."

"And…what is that?" Matthew asked, so gently she thought her heart would burst.

It was getting more difficult to maintain her own falsely cheery expression, but she kept the tears at bay. She'd already cried in his presence a year ago – there was no need to repeat the performance. "I should think it'd be rather obvious," she answered vaguely, clenching the hand at her side into a fist.

His expression was softer now – warmer, and her knuckles grew whiter as he spoke. "Downton _should_ be yours, Mary," he said, with a saddening sincerity. "I've always believed that. I…never belonged here, not really…"

Despite the protestations of her heart, all she could offer now was a trembling smile. "But…surely you won't leave until after the war is over? It can't be long now." The lightness in her voice matched the heaviness in her heart at the thought of her home without Matthew…this time, for good.

He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'm not sure. I know it will be quite a task to pry Mother from the hospital – she's so…enjoyed her time there."

Suddenly, Mary found herself reaching out and lightly touching his arm. He met her eyes, startled – but said nothing further.

"Cousin Isobel…will always have a home here in Downton, as long as I'm alive."

The words sounded ridiculous now that she'd said them – it wasn't as if she'd be mistress here for many years, but in that moment, she knew she would do anything to make sure she didn't lose all connection to Matthew.

"That's…very kind," he said, finally – in a tone that let her know he shared her skepticism about her ability to make this happen. Then she saw his gaze wandering to her hand on his arm the very moment that she dropped it.

She hesitated for a moment before donning her biggest smile. "As will you, of course, if you find anyplace else somehow lacking." Then she laughed – as if the situation was at all funny. "Though I'm sure that it won't be."

"No, I…can't imagine that it will," he replied, averting his eyes. He seemed to be making barely perceptible movements towards the door – the distance between them increasing before her eyes.

"Well, you must promise not to forget us." The joke was rather obvious, but it was all she could muster at this point. It at least prevented her from throwing herself at his feet and begging him once more to pay no attention to anything she said.

To her dismay, his gaze was serious, his smile warm and friendly. "I don't see how I could," he replied. Her knuckles were so tight it was almost painful, but he spared her from having to respond with a brief glance at the door. "I…should be getting back. Mother will be expecting me."

"Of course," she replied, slipping effortlessly back into the role of gracious hostess once more. "Please give her our regards."

Nodding, he then paused – and she held her breath as he opened his mouth, seeming to hesitate for a moment. Her smile seemed in danger of cracking, her mask dissolving and she could not (would not) lose her composure no matter what happened…

"Goodnight, Mary."

He was halfway out the door before she was able to murmur a "Goodnight" in response. Once it had closed behind him, she turned away. Ducking behind a pillar in the foyer, she pressed her hand over her mouth and the sob she'd fought so hard to contain now ripped from her throat.

Then, with a deep breath, she wiped her eyes and straightened. She was moving on. Matthew wanted no part of them – nor should he. Patrick – such as he was – could give her everything she'd wanted and now needed. She'd have the home that should've always been hers, and a good marriage to cover any rumors that might still be lingering around her.

It was enough, she told herself. It would…have to be enough.

Wiping her eyes, the house seemed unusually quiet as she approached the stairway…

"Did Cousin Matthew get off alright?"

Startled, she turned to see her mother, who appeared to be waiting for her. For what reason she couldn't say – other than most likely to chide her for leaving so abruptly earlier in the evening.

"Yes. Although I hardly imagine that's why you're here."

Her mother pursed her lips together, though no rebuke was forthcoming. "Quite right. I just wanted to make a few things clear." At this, Mary rolled her eyes, but Mama pretended not to notice. "This evening was a rather...shocking development, to be sure – but I think it's one we must consider."

Mary's eyes closed briefly at the use of _we_. If she'd ever been capable of sorting out her own marriage prospects without help of her family, that time was long past – especially where Mama was concerned.

"Mama, you don't need to remind me," she remarked, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Seemingly oblivious, her mother continued. "Papa is looking into Patrick's records, but…if it's true, Mary…" She trailed off, before clearing her throat slightly – looking almost embarrassed to say the words. "Then isn't it time you gave up on Matthew?"

In spite of herself, Mary recoiled slightly, trying to mask the action with a brief pat of her hair. "Well, I can't think what you mean."

"We all hoped you'd mend your fences, but now that Patrick has returned…I'm afraid it's quite impossible, my dear." Even her gentle tone left no room for argument.

"Obviously," Mary affirmed, attempting her most bored and unconcerned look.

Sighing, her mother then took Mary's hands. "Oh Mary, don't you see what this match with Patrick could do for you?"

At this, Mary attempted to at least muster a smile in return. "I know, Mama."

"I realize it wasn't exactly what you wanted in the past, but you're no longer a child, you know. Things have changed."

"Yes, how could I possibly forget?" She resented being reminded of her foolish choices – as if she didn't live with them every day. Though the more her mother enthused over the prospect, the less appealing it had started to look.

"It's a fresh start, Mary. I think we all could use one, don't you?" Squeezing her hands once more, Mama reiterated, "Please promise me you'll think about it."

She nodded, putting on her most tolerant smile. "What choice do I have?"

Taking her answer as a sign of assent, her mother gave her a kiss on the cheek and bid her goodnight before ascending the stairs.

Meanwhile, Mary lingered for a moment. After this night, she should've wanted nothing more than to escape to her room and shut out the world. Unfortunately, she'd lost that privilege long ago. Her room was no longer an escape – but a place from which she sought escape.

How fitting that she return there, she thought as she made her way upstairs. Were it not for her room, she might be challenging Patrick as opposed to acquiescing to his presence. Were it not for her room, he might be threatening her inheritance, rather than being prepared to give it to her…

"I would have thought you'd have grown tired of driving Matthew away by now."

Her hand was on the door handle when she turned to see the dim outline of Edith's figure in the corridor. From the looks of it, her sister had already got changed for bed. She looked oddly vulnerable in the almost darkness. In her ruffled dressing gown, Edith looked like an overgrown girl – though Mary could hardly claim to be any different.

Rolling her eyes, Mary replied, "I would have thought you'd have grown tired of Patrick rejecting you."

"He's _not _Patrick!" Edith cried. As before, they chose their weapons well.

In spite of the darkness, she could still see the crease of indignant hurt across her sister's forehead. "Am I the only one who refuses to stand idly by while this… _fake_ and impostor steals Downton out from under our noses?" she then proclaimed in that martyring tone she sometimes adopted when trying to sound particularly pathetic.

With a brief laugh, Mary retorted, "Spare me. Were he returned with the name Edith on his lips, you'd be singing of his authenticity from the rooftops."

Her sister scoffed, though made no effort to deny it. "And what about Matthew?"

Mary tried not to wince, as if his name didn't land on her like a physical blow. Desperately, she attempted to remain composed as she replied smoothly, "What about him? It's a lucky escape – you've seen how he wants nothing to do with us."

"How very generous of him!" Edith crowed, sharply. "Since his loss is your gain."

Again, she blinked, absorbing the blow, but pressing forward to a subject where she felt more comfortable. "Indeed. Talking of loss, it's a pity we never see Sir Anthony around anymore. "

"Oh, I do wonder why that is," Edith volleyed back, but it was a weak reply.

"I suppose he's moved on to greener pastures," Mary mused. "Ones that don't find him quite so _boring_."

She'd struck a nerve and she knew it. They knew exactly where to strike where the other was most vulnerable, even as her own wounds still smarted from where Edith had done her damage.

"You…" her sister breathed, sounding close to tears. "Why must you be so _heartless_?"

Mary was silent.

"All you care about is yourself and your precious title, and you don't care who you hurt!" Edith spluttered angrily, even as her voice kept breaking.

The words allowed Mary a temporary recovery, and she smiled bitterly to herself. Tilting the candle in her hand, she allowed the wax to congeal along the sides before she spoke. "And this is news to you?" was her cold response. "Really, don't act so surprised."

Sighing, Edith was silent for a moment. "I don't have time for this. I'm tired." Mary watched her sister head back down the corridor to her own room, then pause for a moment, turning back round. "But don't pretend _you_ wouldn't be skeptical if someone showed up looking exactly like Matthew, but with no idea who you were!"

Mary resumed her hold on the door handle. "Oh, Edith…" Laughing sadly, she shook her head. "Do you really think Matthew has any idea who I am?"

She then left her sister in the darkness, taking the candle into her own room. Edith's words rang in her ears as Mary carried the candle to her dressing table and opened a drawer. Her fingers glanced lightly over the square object at the top before she slammed it shut once more.

Turning her attention back to the candle, she watched it flicker helplessly for a moment before she blew it out.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I'm so grateful for all your reviews and support – they keep me writing!_

* * *

It was the third letter that had arrived in less than three days, and Matthew was beginning to wonder if Crawley House had been converted into a new branch of the Downton post office in his absence.

He appropriated the square envelope from Moseley's unmoving tray – trying to conceal a glare as he removed yet another piece of paper with the Grantham crest.

But there was something rather different about this one.

His eyes grew wider as he read, to the point where his mother commented, "Matthew, what is it?"

He snapped his head up to meet her inquisitive stare, then closed his mouth and folded the letter, replacing it back in the envelope. "Nothing," he said, hastily.

But of course, her curiosity was piqued. "You'll have to do better than that, my dear – I can see very well who sent it," she remarked, not bothering to hide an edge of impatient irritation. "What on earth do they want now?"

"Nothing," Matthew said again, despite his mother's look that indicated the very opposite. He rose abruptly from the table, muttering something about "I have to go" under his breath, and hoping it would suffice as an explanation.

"Where are you going?" she called after him, but he was halfway into the entryway as she spoke so her response was unfortunately the sound of a door closing behind him.

When he'd made his way out of the house, he pulled out the letter once more. Leaning slightly against the wall to read it, his brow furrowed in utter confusion and an unwanted twinge of annoyance:

_Lieutenant Crawley,_

_I wondered if you might spare some time to come to the house this morning or whenever would suit you. There are some matters that have been brought to my attention, which I would feel most comfortable discussing with you. _

_I'll quite understand if you cannot spare the time or do not wish to see me, and will await your reply._

_Patrick Gordon_

Matthew replaced the letter in the envelope once more, slipping it into his pocket. He ran his hand over his face, exhaling a long, contemplative breath. Patrick was indeed the last person from whom he ever expected to receive any kind of correspondence.

Nothing about the letter made sense, he thought. What were these "matters" that had been brought to the man's attention? If his behavior at last evening's dinner was any indication, Patrick had been the only one bringing "matters" to the fore.

_I would feel most comfortable discussing with you_ seemed to imply he was circumventing Robert in some way. While Matthew's position might have been displaced, his loyalty most definitely was not – and he felt rather uneasy going behind his cousin's back, especially to speak to this stranger he barely knew.

Yet, despite his doubts, Matthew's better nature ultimately won out. He remembered being confused and unsure of his role as heir three years ago, with no one in which to confide or share his concerns, except his mother – who hadn't exactly bolstered his spirits in the beginning.

It was the exact opposite situation, he realized. Where he was met with skepticism, Patrick received a hearty welcome. Where everyone looked down upon him for his prior life, Patrick's uncertain past cast him in a rather sympathetic light.

There was another way in which his life differed greatly from Patrick's at the moment, but he was not going to dwell upon that now. Not after putting it out of his mind for the better part of a year. No, the best course of action would be to answer the man's questions and assuage his fears as quickly as he could.

Hopefully, it wasn't anything _too_ serious.

* * *

"Lieutenant Crawley!"

Carson had stiffened in almost mortified fashion, as Patrick had prematurely greeted Matthew in the foyer, though the man was still behind Carson at the time.

With exaggerated patience, Carson seemed to incline his body to the side, as if to address Patrick without taking his eyes off Matthew. "Lieutenant Crawley to see you, Mr. Gordon," Carson intoned, unnecessarily – but as a matter of course for a visiting guest in his foyer.

"You received my letter," Patrick added, seemingly oblivious – stepping past Carson as if he didn't exist.

Clearing his throat slightly, Matthew murmured out of habit, "Thank you, Carson," and thought he might've seen the faintest trace of a smile grace the man's lips before he seemed to fade into the background once more.

"Mr. Gordon," Matthew now greeted in return. "Yes, it sounded rather urgent. Is there somewhere we can talk?" Without thinking, he'd taken control of the conversation – only because it seemed that if it fell to Patrick, they might be standing in this foyer for a great deal longer than necessary.

Patrick suddenly looked uneasy. "Well, I'd…prefer not to do it here."

The situation seemed to be getting more absurd by the minute, but Matthew was determined not to let it deteriorate any further. "Perhaps we could speak outside? There's a—" Blinking at the memory, he then pressed on, "a clearing that might be suitable."

"Is there? I don't know the grounds," said Patrick, automatically, with an oddly shaky laugh that sounded off the walls of the foyer in a high, thin echo. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it." He then laughed again, anxiously.

Matthew made no reply to that, as he turned towards the door, Carson somehow materializing in front of them to open it. He then walked out into the calm morning air – Patrick following dutifully behind him.

They were silent as Matthew led and Patrick followed. As he walked, he was suddenly struck by how closely this resembled his role as an officer at the front. The man was obeying him, listening to him, apparently seeking his advice as if he was a soldier under Matthew's command. Then again, Patrick was rather obsessed with duty, so perhaps it was fitting.

He glanced back at Patrick again, wondering not for the first time if he looked at all familiar. Regardless of who he was, he had clearly fought in the war. Had he and Patrick crossed paths at some point before the hall at Downton? It was simply impossible to tell…

As they approached the clearing, Matthew felt his heart clench in time to the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Somehow, he'd expected it to be different – for the bench to have been removed, for the tree to have been struck by lightning

Yet, as if to mock him, everything looked depressingly familiar.

Realizing he'd stopped and Patrick was simply standing there, awaiting orders, Matthew continued hesitantly. "Why don't we sit down?" He gestured to the bench with a trace of irritation, though it was the only obvious place they could sit.

Obediently, Patrick waited until Matthew took a seat and then followed as Matthew tried desperately not to think about the last time he'd sat here…or…been here…

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Patrick said again. "I'll come right to the point…"

Biting back a clever retort, Matthew merely looked at the man from out of the corner of his eye, giving the briefest nod to _hurry it up already…_

"Was there….some sort of understanding…between you and cousin Mary?"

Matthew's head jerked up sharply, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut. Patrick was looking at him without a trace of judgment – only an odd sort of_ curiosity_ that made Matthew's stomach churn further. He had to remind himself the man wasn't needling him – he was merely asking a question. He didn't know all that had happened…

"Mary and I are…friends." He hopefully managed to sound at least partially normal.

"Oh, I know there was nothing that was ever formalized," Patrick put in. "But…perhaps more of a secret arrangement that had yet to be announced to the family…"

"Secret…" Matthew repeated incredulously, shaking his head. "No, Mr. Gordon – there is nothing _secret_ between me and...cousin Mary. Nor was there any kind of…understanding…as you put it." His voice had suddenly grown quieter, and he directed his gaze towards the ground.

Patrick immediately looked chastened. "Beg pardon, Lieutenant Crawley – when I saw cousin Mary leave the room so abruptly, I only thought…" he trailed off, now glancing down at his folded hands. "Well, I do apologize."

"It's…quite alright. I'm…sorry if I gave that impression," Matthew said, tightly rubbing his lips together. He turned slightly towards Patrick as he spoke. "Was that all you wished to discuss?"

Now Patrick looked extremely uncomfortable – his hands clasping together at his knees, as he hung his head. "I don't mean to sound impertinent, but…" He raised his eyes, but seemed to keep them trained on the tree rather than Matthew himself. "You must understand…even before I came here, I knew _of _Lord and Lady Grantham and Lady Mary and—and of you, Lieutenant."

"So I've been told," Matthew replied, his unease with the subject increasing as this line of questioning progressed. Indeed, he'd started to fidget a bit with his fingers, rubbing them together in what he recognized was a familiar nervous habit.

Patrick swallowed now, his gaze dancing around more than ever. "There was only…some talk about…why you and Lady Mary were _not_ engaged."

Blinking rapidly, Matthew managed to contain all of his warring emotions behind a slight pursing of his lips.

"Did you not think it your duty to marry Lord Grantham's eldest daughter?" Patrick wondered innocently, almost as if he was a schoolboy asking the teacher the answer to a question.

"I don't believe _duty_ is a reason to marry anyone," Matthew blurted out, without thinking. Then – realizing how what he said might've been interpreted, Matthew attempted to elaborate. "Cousin Mary should…marry who she likes, and if you…care about her, then that's a much better reason than that it being your duty, wouldn't you say?"

Patrick was silent for a moment. "I don't even _know_ her that well," he mused. "Though, I suppose…Patrick must have…if we had an arrangement…"

"Yes, I'm…sure that you did," Matthew responded, quietly. _It's your duty to make her happy,_ he thought suddenly, glancing over at the man sitting next to him, and hoping he could do a better job than Matthew had done.

Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps on gravel, and both men turned to see Edith – who was approaching them at quite a rapid pace.

Matthew didn't know if he'd ever been so glad to see Edith. He gave her a nod and a smile, as he began to feel the tension slowly seeping from his shoulders.

"Mr. Gordon – oh, Matthew! I didn't expect you here." Her surprised tone held a faint twinge of annoyance.

Immediately, Matthew rose from his seat, indicating Edith should sit. "Yes, well – I was invited this morning by…Mr. Gordon."

For a moment, she looked unsure, and then tentatively seated herself upon the bench. "Is that so? I thought you'd been driven away after last night," she answered finally, though her eyes remained fixed on Patrick.

"Cousin Edith," Patrick almost mumbled.

"Mr. Gordon," she returned, with a brief glance at her hands. "Papa—Lord Grantham was concerned when you disappeared without notice."

"Sorry, m'lady – I was merely…speaking with Lieutenant Crawley here."

Now Edith sounded almost amused. "Really? Whatever for?"

"Well, I was—"

"Patrick?" Matthew had to suppress a peculiar wave of sensation at the sound of Mary's lilting voice, curling delicately over another man's name. He heard her before he saw her, appearing before them on the path in her riding clothes, and he forced himself to look at the ground.

He could hear Edith shifting on the bench, most likely in annoyance, as she called out, "What do you want, Mary?"

Mary's eyes seemed to pass over Matthew momentarily, before her smile brightened. "Papa asked me to fetch Patrick." She gave her sister an appraising glance before she added, "I had no idea he'd asked both of us."

Edith said nothing, and a brief glance at her downcast eyes revealed Mary was most likely right, and Edith had come of her own accord.

"Matthew?" Mary's voice sounded softer than it had been when calling for Patrick, but she was also considerably closer to them. "Is everything alright?"

"Lieutenant Crawley came at my request," Patrick answered – as Matthew felt a strange surge of annoyance at the man for usurping his response.

Mary's eyes flickered back to Matthew's. "Did he?" was her only response, before she immediately turned her attention to Patrick. "Well, we mustn't keep Papa—Lord Grantham waiting."

Matthew kept his eyes on Mary as she waited while Patrick rose from the bench and obediently followed, almost at her heels. He thought he saw one of her fists clench momentarily at her side, but then she was too far away for him to see further.

He was about to turn the opposite direction and head back towards the village, when he heard…something that sounded like muffled sobbing.

Startled, he looked over and realized he'd forgotten Edith was still sitting there, her head bowed, sniffing quietly.

"Edith?" he asked, concernedly seating himself back on the bench – though still allowing her ample space.

Her head jerked up suddenly, and he could see her vainly trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. "Oh. Forgive me, Matthew – I do apologize…"

"Is something the matter?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing. Only…" Sniffing again, she quietly admitted, "I…I cared for him…so much. I don't know who...that man is, but it isn't him!"

For a moment, Matthew was silent, turning over her words in his mind. "Well, you…can't be certain, can you?"

Nodding, she sniffed once more. "I suppose you're right, but..." Shaking her head, she brushed more tears away. "But…Patrick would know who I was. I think…he cared for me as well…" There was a wistful tenderness to Edith's tone – the kind of which he'd never heard from her before.

"Was he not…in love with Mary?" Matthew ventured, hesitantly – remembering his earlier assertion about their past, and a strange chill ran through him at the thought.

At this, Edith let out a short laugh. "He was _promised_ to Mary," she corrected, sharply. "Mary didn't want him, but she knew I did. I dare say, I think she pretended she was going to accept their arrangement just to spite me!"

Matthew shifted in his seat, not wanting to remember how vividly he recalled how changeable Mary's affections could be. Still, something stronger overrode it, and he shook his head. "I'm…certain that wasn't the case."

"Of course it was, Matthew – she takes what she wants, and she doesn't care about the consequences. You of all people _must_ know that…"

"That seems…rather harsh," he remarked, feeling a faint stirring of protectiveness rising to the surface.

Edith now seemed to be almost laughing in disbelief, as if this was some sort of joke. "How can you say that when you know what she's done…"

"She's…done a great many things," he offered, finally. Edith wasn't making a good deal of sense, but he put it down to her being upset. "Are you referring to…one in particular?"

Her head whipped sharply to him. "You don't…" she started. Then looking away, she shook her head. "I'm sorry – I really must get back."

"Edith, what is it?" he pressed her, suddenly concerned. "You speak as if something…serious happened. "

"It's nothing," Her laugh was not quite convincing. "Nothing to trouble you about. Please, forget I said anything."

As he stood in deference when she rose from the bench, he then saw her clasping her hands together in front of her. She'd already started to walk away, before she suddenly whirled around again. "And I'd appreciate…if you wouldn't mention this to Mary."

"…Alright," Matthew agreed, almost automatically – still so utterly confused.

"Right. Well…good day, Matthew."

He could only nod as Edith took off at quite a clip. Then he stood for a while by himself in the quiet of the morning after the rest of them had left – his head still swimming from all he'd been told and heard.

All at once, he remembered he really no longer had any right to linger on the grounds, so he left the clearing and the bench and once more started back away from the place he'd intended to leave a year ago.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thank you to all who've continued to bear with me during this fic! I appreciate your patience with this latest update, as well as your ongoing support!_

* * *

Mary had walked the grounds of Downton so many times that her feet felt as if they'd instinctively molded to the gravel on the path.

Glancing briefly behind her, she saw Patrick, walking at her heels in companionable silence. Unfortunately, he seemed to interpret her action as an indication that she wanted to talk, for he sped up and indeed was now walking at her side.

She kept trying to increase her pace, but he followed her, step for step. Then she made the mistake of actually catching his eyes for a moment. They appeared to be…practically glowing with a strange kind of warmth that she desperately hoped could've been interpreted as friendly.

"We must have walked like this all the time before," he suggested, amiably.

Managing a tight smile and a curt nod, some sound that vaguely resembled agreement hummed through her.

In deference to his utter lack of memory, she waded through the recesses of her own – trying to pick out images of any time she spent with Patrick when she suddenly realized…she could never actually recall being alone with him. There was always the buffer of family – at dinners and on summer outings.

She now recognized it as a strange sort of family compromise. They could have separate lives away from each other, so long as they were prepared to join their lives when the time was right.

Shaking her head slightly, she replied as kindly as she could, "Patrick…certainly spent many happy summers here."

"I'm sure they were happy…if spent in your company."

Mary tried not to cringe at the strangely tender look on his face. Instead she adjusted her posture, holding herself almost imperceptibly straighter. "Quite right," she quipped, lightly. "Our families spent many happy times together."

But he would not be denied. "As did…you and Patrick…" It wasn't quite a question, and he was moving closer to her, as if to take her arm - the distance between them almost entirely gone. "We must've done…if we had an arrangement."

Her feet began to move faster, her heart rate increasing as her eyes remained fixed on her home looming in the distance. It would be hers, she reminded herself. Every room, every piece of furniture, every inch of space. She could live with Patrick in another wing of the house. They'd make regular trips to London, where she'd have a life and all the accompanying distractions of society...

She might see Matthew if he returned to Downton, she thought almost involuntarily, feeling her chest tighten once more. Or would she ever again… Blinking, she cleared her vision, and the house encompassed her entire focus once more.

"Perhaps we could…go walking every morning. Get to…know each other a little better?" Patrick's voice brought her back from her bitter reverie. His tone was softer, gentler now and she couldn't help but walk even faster until she was almost straining for breath.

Abruptly, she turned to him. "What a…lovely idea." A light laugh attempted to downplay his suggestion, before she changed tactics. "Though you certainly shouldn't feel the need to spend time with me. We wouldn't want you neglecting your _duty_ to my father and the estate." If he'd forgotten the terms of their arrangement, she most certainly hadn't.

"It wouldn't be a duty to spend time with you," he persisted, sounding so sincere it was almost too much for her to process. "It's…important, given our…arrangement. Don't you agree?"

She was about to protest further, when she spotted a familiar figure in the distance – hurrying on from the path back to the house, and suddenly the reason for Patrick's sudden change of heart became glaringly apparent.

Donning her brightest smile, she turned to him. "Of course!" she replied, eagerly. "But we can discuss this later – you mustn't keep Pa—Lord Grantham waiting."

Having been given an order, Patrick seemed set to follow it – but he then stopped. Luckily, she anticipated his question. "I'll be there in a minute." With the barest tilt of her head, she tried to encourage him towards the house. "Go on."

He seemed uneasy, but seemed disinclined to protest further. Dutifully, she saw him briskly marching up towards the door, while Mary took off immediately back to the path.

Edith's head was bowed, as if she was shouldering quite a heavy burden – most likely all of her own imagining. Mary's steps became quicker as she approached her sister, her voice remarkably steady as she called out, "What did you say to him?"

Her sister's head jerked up, and for a moment there was genuine fear in her eyes – which did nothing to calm Mary's nerves. "I don't know what you mean," Edith answered, in what was clearly a poor attempt to hide her own discomfort.

Mary's laugh was brief, but knowing. "Don't be stupid. I saw you speaking with Patrick before I arrived. What else—or rather _who_ else could explain his sudden interest in our past?"

Now Edith seemed to visibly relax, her lips curling upwards into a kind of half-smirk. "Perhaps unlike you, he doesn't want an _arrangement_ with someone he doesn't really know."

They were within steps of the house when Mary turned back towards her sister – calling her bluff. "I don't believe you want to take me on, Edith. As I recall, losing really doesn't suit you."

"And what have I to lose?" Edith's unflappable expression flashed a challenge. "I've no other prospects – you saw to that." Her hand then rested on the door, her lips twitching as if in thought. "I suppose now Matthew and I have a great deal more in common than I thought…"

Then Edith pushed the door open, and Mary drew her lips into a thin line – still reeling from her sister's snide reminder. Without thinking, she sought escape in the library - half-seating herself, half-sinking down into a chair. Her heart was still pounding and her breath had yet to regulate itself, as if she'd been chased the entire way home.

"Is that you, Mary?"

With a brief glance into the vast expanse of library, she saw her father at his writing desk – in full view of where she was sat. She forced her lips into an accommodating smile as she rose to make her way into the main part of the room.

"Did you wish to see me?" she asked Papa once she'd crossed in front of his desk. All at once, she remembered how she'd stood in this same room the first time her father had spoken to her about what had happened to Patrick.

Pharaoh loped into the room, settling himself down beside her father's chair. As Papa shuffled some papers on his desk, he then reached down to give the poor old dog's ears a gentle scratch.

"As a matter of fact, I did. I've just had a talk with…Patrick," her father informed her. He paused another moment before looking directly at Mary. "Has he spoken with you?"

Nodding, Mary replied, "Only briefly."

Again, her father seemed almost uneasy as to how to proceed. Frowning, he then shifted in his chair. "To be quite frank, Mary…do you intend to go through with this arrangement or not?"

Sighing, Mary barely managed to keep her tone civil. "Not you as well! Mama has already made her position on this perfectly clear."

"Given how infrequently your wishes coincide with hers, you'll forgive me for wanting _your_ feelings on the matter."

Mary smiled, though she could tell it wasn't exactly the reaction for which her father had hoped. "Well, we don't even know if he's Patrick yet…"

A pen clattered loudly against the desk, and she could hear her father's exasperated sigh. "Mary, I'll not go through this again. When last we saw Patrick—" his hands came up in front of him, tempering his statement – "_if_ he is indeed Patrick, you could not have been clearer about your…regard for him."

That old stubbornness riled in Mary at her father's words. "So, I'm not allowed to reconsider my options? Is not this match exactly what everyone has always wanted?"

"Of course it is, Mary – but I don't believe it's exactly what _you've _always wanted."

Her mouth dropped open slightly, her lip giving the barest hint of a quiver. "…I've always wanted Downton." Still, her protest was half-hearted at best, as she stared down the awful reality that somehow her father knew her heart was engaged elsewhere.

"Have you?" he asked, his tone sounding almost kind. Then he sighed, and gave Pharaoh another brief pat on the head. "Anyway, the war has changed things, as I see them. It'll be over soon enough, but…perhaps you want to avoid making any decisions until then."

Mary's eyes closed briefly at the mention of the war, before she cleared her throat – quickly glancing at some uninteresting books on the wall. "I can manage my own affairs," she informed him, trying to sound convincing.

"Believe me, I'm quite aware of that," her father answered, and the two shared a brief, slightly conspiratorial smile that occasionally characterized their relationship. "And if…Patrick is what you want, you have my every blessing, my girl. "

Gamely, she attempted a smile – wondering at how what had seemed so simple an hour ago had suddenly become immeasurably complicated.

"Well, then..." she said, simply, and turned to leave.

"Though you should know…" Papa's voice had a curious lilt to it that made her stop and turn back toward him once more. "Before he left, I told Matthew that his prospects made no difference to me. And they still don't." He gave her such a look that she could feel her heart sinking slowly within her chest.

"Oh, Papa…" Her tone was careful, as she tried to keep her voice steady. "I'm afraid there are some things not even the war can change."

She then left the room before he could say anything further.

Walking uncertainly into the hall, she then spotted Edith who was seated facing Patrick – both clearly engaged in polite conversation.

"Oh, hello!" Mary called out, her tone dripping with false brightness. "I do hope I'm interrupting!"

Patrick jumped up from the chair as if she was some sort of famous general. "Cousin Mary!" he squeaked. "I…I was just speaking with…cousin Edith."

"Yes, I see." Mary kept her eyes on her sister, her grin perfectly in place as she chose a seat closest to Patrick. "So…what were we discussing exactly?"

Edith was about to open her mouth – no doubt to cover with a smooth, plausible-sounding lie – before Patrick unknowingly interjected, "We were speaking about the summers…spent here. Apparently, cousin Edith and...Patrick were quite close."

Mary's smile only widened. "Well, I think all the family were quite close – wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I think there were some that were a bit closer than others," her sister replied, smoothly.

Her heart pounded frenetically, as she attempted to maintain her composure. "Indeed. Talking of family, Edith…I think Mama wants us to make sure everything is ready for Sybil's return this afternoon." It was an utterly transparent fib, and moreover, Edith knew it.

"Of course, Mary." Not to be outdone, Edith then laid a daring hand on Patrick's arm - keeping her eyes on Mary as she spoke. "Would you kindly excuse us a moment?"

Patrick, of course, murmured his assent as the two sisters rose with smiles on their faces that turned bitter the moment they'd entered the drawing room on Mary's pretence.

"My, how quickly your affections can turn!" commented Mary, lightly – as if the matter was of no concern to her. "One minute, you want nothing to do with him, and the next you're chatting like a pair of dear old friends."

Edith pretended to look thoughtful for a moment. "I wonder wherever I could've learned that…" she mused, not trying to hide her smug look of triumph.

It was such an obvious response that all Mary could do was roll her eyes. "Oh, do try not to act so jealous all the time. It's really quite unbecoming."

"Jealous?" Edith repeated, incredulously. "And why would I be jealous when I have the truth on my side?"

"And what truth would that be?" Every word was infused with mockery. "That cousin Patrick is a fake and an impostor?"

Edith shrugged. "A fake and an impostor terribly interested in your past. Well, you'll have to tell him something, won't you?"

Mary stared back at her sister, who was giving her a significant look.

Nevertheless, Mary refused to give her the satisfaction of even acknowledging her sister's implication. "Oh yes, how remiss of me for not filling his head with stupid childhood tales about how we played and my pony and my birthday."

"Come now, Mary – we both know you have a _much_ more interesting story than that." Her sister glanced away briefly as she continued. "I suppose I can understand you not telling Matthew, but—"

"What?" Mary's hand flew to her mouth, almost unbidden.

Edith's brow furrowed slightly, but she continued, regardless. "Well, if you marry Patrick, you'll have to—"

"How did you know I didn't tell Matthew?" Mary's voice was almost inaudible over the sound of her heart hammering steadily, as she voiced her worst fear: "What did you- Did you tell him?"

For a moment, Edith looked at her in chastened confusion. "Not…directly," she admitted, with a quiet shrug of her shoulders. "I…thought he knew. Isn't that why he ended things…"

Something clicked into place – something she hadn't even noticed when she'd seen Edith seated on the bench – when she'd come to retrieve Patrick and left her sister alone with…

Her mouth was so dry, she couldn't respond - the room seeming to sway in front of her. She felt her legs start to give out and grabbed onto the wall to catch her breath, without a trace of the graceful superiority she usually exhibited around her sister.

Edith was staring at her, and it seemed ten years had fallen away from them both. "Mary…" she began, helplessly – but seemed unsure what to say.

Fortunately, that dreaded note of pity in Edith's voice snapped Mary out of her momentary daze. She straightened her posture, arranging her emotions neatly back into place, as she shot her sister a withering look. "Don't speak of things you know nothing about, if you know what's good for you."

With that warning, she swept from the room – smothering her tears and willing the flush to disappear from her cheeks. She could handle this – it was just Edith, after all – she could speak to Matthew and make sure he didn't…

After all, what was one more lie in the grand scheme of all that had happened?

"Cousin Mary!"

She was traveling so fast through the hall that she'd completely forgotten about Patrick. How insignificant he seemed to her now – how insignificant it all seemed.

"Cousin Mary." Patrick was at her heels now – and images of her father and Pharaoh suddenly sprung to mind.

Gathering all her resolve into a tolerant smile, she turned to him. "Cousin Patrick." It was the first time she'd addressed him as such, but titles seemed so unimportant now. "I'm terribly sorry – I just remembered…I must go down to the village."

"Oh." He seemed deflated only briefly. "I could join you, if you'd like – we could…continue our talk?"

It should've annoyed her, but she found her smile only broadening. "Oh, I assure you that's quite unnecessary." Her eyes then lit upon the room behind her. "Edith?"

Her sister, who'd just emerged from the drawing room, stopped suddenly - as if she'd been caught out in the middle of the hall.

Mary held her sister's gaze as she continued, "Why don't you tell cousin Patrick about the time you two hid in the garden from the nasty governess?"

Something resembling understanding flickered between her and Edith, as her sister nodded slowly. "I'd be delighted," she replied, appearing to comply with their uneasy truce.

With a nod of her own, Mary turned from them and continued out of the room – pushing through the doors and into the foyer. Every room, every piece of furniture, every inch of space. What did any of that matter now? If Matthew would never come back, if he would never forgive her, if he would be lost to her, even as a friend, if…

All that mattered to her now was getting to Matthew. Indeed, it was all that had ever mattered.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: As this site's new review message would say: "The author would like to thank you for your continued support." Couldn't have said it better myself!_

* * *

Somewhere between his walk back from the house and into the village, the day had become absolutely stifling.

The cool fog of morning air had completely burnt off into the oppressive heat that now seemed to be soaking into everyone and everything. Matthew had removed his hat, and gave serious consideration to ridding himself of his jacket – but ultimately, he merely decided to duck in to the first building he saw.

He was a bit preoccupied when he went through the familiar gate, and indeed hadn't fully realized where he was until he opened the door as quietly as he could and found himself an unwitting observer at the Downton hospital.

His mother was working – doing her job, doing her bit, being useful – and it struck him as he watched her, how utterly useless he'd become. He also found himself experiencing a strange sort of kinship with the patients - these poor devils whose purpose had also been stripped from them.

Then he immediately felt guilty for even thinking such things. Unlike them, he could leave this stifling, oppressive place – he would go back, he would carry on fighting even if they couldn't.

Unlike some of them, he thought grimly…this wouldn't be the last place he'd ever see.

Shaking his head free of such thoughts, he hastily left the building. The bright sunlight beat down on him heavily - as if to punish him for his traitorous thoughts.

He was about to head out the gates and back into the village when all at once, he'd found himself cast in shadow. His head jerked up, his focus blurring at the familiar silhouette now standing in front of him, and his mouth was suddenly parched from the heat.

At least…he was fairly certain it was the heat.

Mary was standing just outside the gate. Her cheeks appeared flushed, and her breathing seemed to be particularly labored – almost as if she'd been running. "Oh…hello." She met his eyes for a moment, before glancing towards the hospital. "I didn't expect to see you here," she said, quietly.

"I was…just leaving." He wondered when words had gotten so impossible to form. "If you're looking for mother, she's just inside."

"Actually…it's you I came to see."

His eyebrows rose, his collar feeling tighter than ever. "Well…then you've found me!" he exclaimed, wishing he hadn't sounded quite so stupid.

"Indeed I have!" She gave him an almost nonsensical smile. Opening her mouth, she then closed it before blithely continuing, "I know it's the last night of your leave, but Sybil is returning, so we wondered if you…and your mother might join us for dinner!"

"Sybil will be here…this afternoon?" he wondered, with a quiet surge of sympathy for the girl. Family upheaval was the last thing she needed after attending a funeral.

With a brief nod, Mary answered, "Branson should be bringing her back shortly."

"So, she hasn't yet heard…about Patrick?"

She seemed to start, as if his question was somehow unexpected. "No, I suppose she hasn't. Mama will probably tell her when she returns."

He considered this for a moment, before uneasily posing his next question:" Was your sister…close with him?"

Mary frowned. "Not particularly. Why do you—" Then she sighed, her lips twisting upwards into a knowing smile. "I see you've been speaking with Edith."

He'd forgotten how very skilled she was at deflection. "Yes, I have," he said, almost pointedly.

A moment later, he regretted his tone. After all, there was nothing between them now. He had absolutely no reason to be upset that she'd never shared with him that she'd even had a prior arrangement with Patrick. And yet…

Mary had started walking away from the hospital, her head bowed as she stared at her clasped hands. "And I suppose she told you that she was in love with Patrick, and I refused to relinquish my claim on him, is that right?" Now she looked up at him with an inquisitive stare that somehow made him feel worse for mentioning the subject in the first place.

He'd started to walk beside her – albeit slightly behind her. "In a manner of speaking," he allowed, remembering Edith's tears from this morning as clearly as he remembered other equally painful wounds that weren't quite as fresh. "Is it…true?"

"It's not…entirely inaccurate," she allowed, with a sigh.

"And…was he in love with her?"

The question stopped both of them in their tracks, now facing each other in the middle of the village. He hadn't intended the question to come out as more of a plea, but he couldn't exactly take it back now.

Her eyes seemed to grow larger, her cheeks appearing slightly pink from the exertion of walking and the heat of the day. He willed himself not to look at her lips, which were parted on a thought she clearly hadn't formed yet.

Finally, he heard her sigh, her shoulders seeming to relax a bit. "I believe that he was…yes."

As she spoke, her words seemed to somehow inform the relationship between the sisters, as well as the family – and he saw Mary's history with a kind of illuminating clarity.

"But..._you_ would've taken him?" The words seemed particularly painful to form, even addressed to the ground.

She was silent for several moments as they continued to walk, and he thought he'd stepped too far over the line. But just when he was about to apologize, she turned slightly towards him: "Patrick's father…cousin James was the heir before him, and Patrick never would've spoken against him. The match was decided by our families, but..." Finally, she let out a breath. Her shrug seemed a mixture of defiant and helpless. "I don't know. Maybe."

Holding her gaze, Matthew suddenly saw her situation more clearly than he'd ever done. He blinked uncomfortably and looked quickly away. "Forgive me, I…I didn't mean to pry." He then started seeking out that elusive change of subject. "Anyway, I'm sure you don't want to discuss…ancient history."

A momentary smile seemed to tug at her lips, but it was gone rather quickly. "Not so ancient now, I suppose."

He gave only the barest nod of assent. "No..."

They continued walking – moving through the village and up the road so that when Crawley House became visible in the distance, it seemed only natural for him to lead them there.

There was a table with chairs in the back garden, and several nearby trees appeared to provide at least some protection from the sun. Mary took the seat opposite from him, so the idea couldn't have been too disagreeable.

All the while, he stared at her – her face a mask of blank expression – and he wondered at the true purpose of her visit. A dinner invitation could've been handled via letter. Perhaps she had…definitive news to announce? The thought made him more uncomfortable than he ought to have been, and he shifted even as they sat.

Her cheeks seemed quite flushed, and she was fidgeting rather more than he thought he remembered – but he put it down to the heat. If it was making him feel out of sorts, he could only imagine how she must be feeling right now.

"There was…something else…" she began, uncertainly. Her hands folded together on her lap, almost in prayer as she spoke.

The sun now seemed to have disappeared, but the heat was still ever present around them. "Oh?"

Now she looked directly at him – her eyes shining with a clear determination as she continued. "Edith…may have mentioned something else to you this morning…to do with me..."

He tried vainly to remember any of Edith's cryptic remarks, but they all seemed a blur now. "I suppose it wouldn't shock you to learn she was…less than complimentary…"

"Yes, well she…also wasn't wrong."

Matthew's eyes widened slightly, but she was now staring back at her hands – her fingers seemingly interlocking together on her lap. Shaking her head, she smiled to herself. "There are…things I never told you, which I should've done, and I thought I might—"

There was a loud popping – like the sound of gunfire, and Matthew flinched – his head jerking up. He almost lunged towards Mary, as if to cover her body with his – though his rational mind insisted there couldn't possibly be gunfire, not here, not—

Again, the sound rattled in his ears, and he heard Mary gasp. A patch of her translucent blouse was stained to almost transparent – so he could practically see through to her shoulder.

Suddenly, the sky had opened up, unleashing a deluge of rain. Neither of them were wearing hats, he realized when he found himself unable to stop staring at her hair becoming leaden with water, her hands instinctively hugging her waist, as her blouse clung to her…

"Matthew!" she seemed to be shouting over the storm, and his head snapped to attention to catch her eyes. Water was dripping down her cheeks, but her voice was controlled as she continued, "We should go inside!"

He could only nod as they stood at practically the same time, and he tried to usher her to the door, but his hand only grazed her back the moment she stepped through – always a few steps ahead of him, even now.

* * *

Moseley had met them halfway to the sitting room, and immediately directed Ellen to fetch some blankets for Lady Mary – despite the fact that it was still sweltering outside.

Matthew would've preferred much the same treatment, but Moseley had insisted he get changed, claiming that his mother, who was a nurse, would've been most upset to see her son sitting around in wet clothes if he could avoid it. With a sigh, Matthew was then forced to concede the argument.

He therefore descended the stairs in a clean, dry uniform. As he entered the sitting room, he saw Mary seated in a chair, staring into the fire Ellen must have hastily built. Water still beaded on her hair, which hung in damp strands around her ears. But somehow she still managed to somehow make a blanket draped around her shoulders look elegant.

She glanced up as he entered the room, her gaze seeming especially warm in the firelight. Shivering, he told himself it was a residual effect of the rain.

"Moseley is bringing us some tea," she informed him, matter-of-factly. Almost as if she were mistress of the house, he mused – before pushing that thought out of his mind.

Nodding, he pulled the chair on the other side of the room in line with hers, and sat down – folding his hands and pretending to stare into the flames.

"Are you alright?" he asked her, automatically – still not entirely comfortable with the fact that he was in dry clothes and she was still soaked to the skin under those blankets. He shivered again, as he shifted in his chair.

She looked at him with the barest hint of a smile. "I've braved worse, Matthew."

A droplet of water ran down her neck, disappearing into the blanket and he swallowed, uncomfortably. "Yes, well you'd think this was the first time _I'd_ seen a storm," he commented, with a shaky laugh.

As she offered him a smile in return, the blanket slipped from her shoulders, revealing the transparent patch of her blouse, and he was suddenly shaken by memory. "When we were…outside, you…said you wanted to tell me something."

He moistened his lips, feeling the heat from the fire begin to seep into his skin as he held her gaze.

"Yes, I did." Her eyes were glassy, and his lips parted at how uncomfortable she now looked.

"Mary, I didn't mean—" he protested.

"No, I...I should have told you long ago but…I couldn't."

His voice came out barely above a whisper, and a strange chill ran through him, despite the glow of the fire: "Told me what?"

"The reason…I couldn't accept you."

All of a sudden, they were back on the grounds of the Abbey – the torrential rain replaced by brilliant sunshine, his stiff uniform replaced by a crisp linen suit and she, he realized…was just as lovely as ever.

He drew in a breath, watching her mouth open as if to inhale, and she looked back down at her hands. "It was only because…"

Sighing, she then she smiled to herself, though it seemed to be the saddest smile he'd ever seen from her. "…Because of your prospects."

His mouth closed, and he sat back slightly in his chair. He'd wondered, of course, but some stubborn voice kept reminding him that she'd seemed to deny it when asked.

"If you…were not the heir, I wasn't sure whether I could marry you," she continued, her hands now clenching together.

A spark rose up in the fire, bursting in front of them. He shifted in his chair, his brow furrowing uncomfortably. "I see."

"I'm so sorry," she said, thickly.

"Don't be," he assured her. "Actually, I…I'm glad you told me."

At this, she practically scoffed: "You're glad?"

He'd surprised even himself with his answer, but found he was unwilling to take it back. "Yes, I am," he reiterated, with more confidence. "Believe me, I'd much rather know."

For a moment, she stared at him in what seemed bewildered hopelessness – as if uncertain she'd heard him properly. "Of course I wouldn't blame you for thinking differently of me…now that you know what kind of person I really am."

Her words seemed unusually harsh, and he found himself almost wounded by them. "You…cannot believe one decision defines who you are."

"Oh, Matthew!" Now she was laughing, which seemed strange – but he let it go for the moment.

"I don't— I don't care about the past," he insisted, leaning forward as if to emphasize his point. "All I want now is for us to be friends."

The flames of the fire began to ebb in the damp air. She sniffed, then looked up, and he found his eyes inexorably drawn to hers.

"Do you really think we could be friends…after all this?" she asked, and he wondered at the slight tremor in her voice as she spoke.

Fortunately or not, whatever he would've said was abruptly interrupted by a rustling at the door, and he sat up straighter in his chair as he saw Moseley approaching.

"Beg pardon, Sir," the man apologized – seeming to sense he was intruding. "Mr. Branson has just arrived to retrieve Lady Mary."

With a nod, Matthew murmured, "Thank you, Moseley."

Mary had already risen from her chair, the blanket now tightly clutched around her like some sort of armor. Her smile was tight, but he still detected a hint of sincerity in it.

"So, I do hope you'll be joining us this evening for dinner," she remarked, as if she was casually continuing their previous conversation. "I'm sure Sybil is longing to see you. And Granny will be there as well."

He couldn't help but smile, as he pictured the entire complement of family gathering for dinner. It did seem like the kind of normalcy he would miss once he…left. Perhaps he might even persuade his mother to come, as well, and all of them could pretend it was just like it was before – if only for an evening. After this afternoon, he was fairly certain he could handle anything.

"Well then, I'd be delighted," he answered with a smile of his own. "That is, if you still want me."

"Whenever do we not?" Mary replied, brightly.

She continued to the door, which Moseley was now holding open. The rain had stopped as swiftly as it had began – the only evidence being the puddles on the path and the blast of hot air rushing into the house. Unfortunately, the storm had done little to abate the heat outside.

As she was starting down the walkway, he blurted out suddenly, "And…tell Patrick…"

Turning, she seemed surprised, and he merely smiled in the spirit of their newly affirmed friendship. "If he doesn't make you happy…he'll have me to answer to."

Her expression seemed momentarily thoughtful before she raised her eyebrow at him. The gesture was so quintessentially _Mary_ it made his heart ache.

Then she stepped lightly around the puddles, before Branson helped her into the car. The blanket was still draped loosely about her shoulders, and Matthew had to suppress another shiver as the door closed behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Many grateful thanks to all who've been so kind to review! Special thanks to the lovely and talented Chickwriter, as well as OrangeShipper, for so generously promoting this fic on Tumblr!_

* * *

Not for the first time, Patrick looked lost. "I, I don't understand."

Mary tightened her grip on the blanket still covering her shoulders. She had meant to go upstairs and ring for Anna to help her change into dry clothes. But when she'd seen Patrick in the smaller part of the library – on the same chair where she herself had sat a couple hours ago, it had all seemed so very clear.

Sighing, she sat up a little straighter in her own chair. "I've not been...entirely honest with you…about our past," she remarked, wondering at how it was so easy to speak freely when one had nothing to lose. "You must understand it was our families that wanted the match between us."

He was silent for a moment. "But we had an arrangement," he seemed to be reminding her, though it sounded more like a question.

"Obviously." Her tone was almost clipped. "You were the heir. It was our duty to marry."

She watched as he appeared to wince at the word he'd embraced with such fervor when he'd first arrived. "But I cared for you," he insisted, stubbornly. "Lieutenant- er...cousin Matthew said I was in love with you or…well, I wouldn't have agreed to the match, would I?"

The hand not holding the blanket clenched quietly in her lap. Of course it had been Matthew – not Edith – who'd triggered Patrick's sudden fixation on the past. Who else but Matthew would've believed love necessary for a marriage?

Then her lips turned up as she realized her opportunity. "Actually, your affections…lay elsewhere in our family."

Patrick was silent for a moment – then his eyes widened suddenly, and he drew back in disbelief.

"Surely you can't mean…" Though he couldn't bring himself to speak her name, it was clear he knew exactly to whom Mary was referring. "But she—she doesn't even like me!"

"Is that really what you think?" As Mary rubbed her lips together, she had to wonder at how closely her sister's temperament resembled her own. "I think in speaking to her, you may find she doesn't dislike you at all."

He looked as if he was still processing this information, and she wondered if perhaps – if he really was Patrick, then a tiny glimmer or spark or some kind of feeling buried in the recesses of his brain might've somehow been activated by her words.

"But _you_..." He glanced down at his hands for a moment, twisted together on his lap. "You never loved…Patrick."

His tone was so forlorn that Mary could only feel sympathy for him. "That's…not how we were together," she corrected him, gently.

Still, he turned his uncertain eyes to her, "And that's why…"

"I'm releasing you from our arrangement, yes."

She was amazed at how easily the words slipped out now, and she felt her heart growing lighter as she shed a few of its past burdens.

"You did say you wanted the truth of our past." The memories came flooding back – the reason she could recall no instance of her and Patrick together. He had always been with Edith. It was he and Edith locked together in the corner of the room – at her birthday, with her pony, hiding in the garden together.

"It was Edith…who cared for me." It was one of the first times Mary had ever heard him refer to himself without his usual customary hesitation, and she thought it particularly significant. "And I..."

She then clasped his hand briefly in a gesture of good faith. "Perhaps you could make each other happy." The words could not help but produce a small smile.

Patrick looked thoughtful for a moment – before his worried gaze shifted back towards her. "What about you?" he asked, sounding concerned. "You've been so kind to me. Will you be happy now?"

Her eyes traveled around the room, taking in her surroundings. Though her heart sunk slightly at the thought of leaving her beloved home – of never becoming its mistress, there was another part of her that was indeed relieved.

After years of uncertainty, she finally knew Downton would never be hers. It would either go to Patrick, or – if for some reason he was not Patrick – then Matthew. There would be a new countess – either her sister with Patrick, or some other lovely girl worthy of Matthew's love.

It would not, however, be her.

"Life is full of surprises," she allowed, giving him a reassuring smile.

Then she rose from her chair – and swept from the room, leaving him to ponder his own future – and hope that now having all the information, he could make the decision he should've made long ago.

* * *

It was the second time Mary was to get changed today. She had rang for Anna prior to Sybil's luncheon, where she'd divested herself of her mostly dry clothes, and got her hair re-done. With a somewhat heavy heart, she'd removed all traces of the storm and her conversation with Matthew earlier that morning.

There had been a silver lining to it all, however. Immediately after luncheon, she'd caught a glimpse of Patrick and Edith speaking together in hushed tones. They'd quietly left the drawing room and headed for the library – most likely going unnoticed by her parents, who were still talking with Sybil about her journey, and the funeral.

Mary had then retired to her room to read and have a rest – having found this morning particularly exhausting. When she heard the sound of the dressing gong, she couldn't help but smile to herself. Matthew would be there for dinner, though her happiness immediately faded when she realized it was his last night of leave.

He'd be gone in the morning. But at least she'd ensured he'd be returning (for he _would_ be returning) to Downton, regardless of what happened with Patrick.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, though the door didn't immediately open – as generally it did when Anna arrived to help her change.

"Yes?" Mary called, slightly confused.

The door opened wider, followed by a clearly agitated Edith. "What did you say to him?" her sister asked, without preamble.

Mary did her best to look nonchalant, though her lips twitched almost against her will. "Well, I certainly didn't tell him that you thought him boring."

To her utter amazement, Edith's laugh sounded especially bitter. "How I wish you had done! That at least would've been somewhat kind!"

"And how exactly was I _un_kind?" Mary wanted to know, practically laughing at her sister's ridiculous temper tantrum.

"You told him about _us_!"

She gave her sister an odd look, pointedly raising her eyebrow. "So what if I did?"

"And he proposed to me!"

That did catch Mary out a bit, blinking rapidly as she attempted to raise herself to her full height while sitting on her bed. She also felt a momentary stab of jealousy, which was swiftly overtaken by a surge of anger. "Then why on earth are you upset? You finally have the man you've always wanted!"

"Do I?" Edith cried.

Now it was Mary's turn to laugh. "Oh, don't tell me you were stupid enough to turn him down!"

"Of course I turned him down!" her sister replied. "Isn't that obvious?"

"Oh yes, how could I have forgot how he's a fake and an impostor!" Mary rolled her eyes, tiring so much of this game.

"Haven't you been listening? I turned him down because he might _be_ Patrick!" Edith almost shouted.

For a moment, Mary was utterly struck dumb. "…What?"

Her sister then calmly walked to Mary's dressing table and seated herself primly at her chair. In that moment, she looked every inch the future Countess of Grantham.

Then her shoulders slumped, and she became the Edith that Mary had always known. When she looked up, she seemed almost weary. "Do you know what he said when I asked him why he was proposing?"

"The suspense is killing me," was Mary's flat response.

Her sister actually smiled now, though her voice seemed stripped of all emotion as she continued, laughter coloring her words: "He said it was because…he knew _now_ that he loved me."

Mary's haughty laugh attempted to cover her shock. "Please don't try to pretend you didn't love him."

Edith ran her fingers slightly along the edge of the chair as she spoke, seemingly enthralled with the way they danced up and down. "Of course I did." Mary saw a slight blush color her sister's cheeks before she raised her eyes to meet her sister's, "But if he…_is_ Patrick, and he has to be _told_ that he loves me? Then he doesn't really know me – and he hasn't for _years_."

"What difference does it make? Granny always says everyone goes down the aisle with half the story hidden," Mary reminded her sister, flinching slightly at the meaning the words held in her own life.

"Because I know the whole story!" Edith protested. "And he knows none of it!"

It was so preposterous Mary had to remove herself from the bed. Crossing to the window, her laugh grew even more anxious: "But he still wants to marry you. I cannot believe that means nothing to you!"

Edith was silent for a moment. "Of course it _means_ something, but…" She sighed. "Perhaps I want to marry someone who cares for _me _– not some fantasy version of me he's envisioned in his head."

"Do you think you'll be able to forget him?" When Mary turned around to face her sister, she had to control her voice. "You'll be in love with him your whole life."

Edith was silent for a moment in what seemed to be quiet contemplation. "I suppose I will. But as a part of my past…and nothing more."

For some reason, her sister's words were making her particularly furious. "So, you have the chance to be with him, and you're just going to let it slip away? You really are a stupid, foolish girl!" She was breathing heavily now, doing her utmost to maintain the cool façade that was rapidly slipping.

"Yes, I probably am." Edith paused, seeming to choose her words much more carefully. "At least I was honest with him. He deserved that, you know."

"Really? How generous," Mary snapped back. "But then I suppose you've always believed in full disclosure." Her glare was laden with meaning, as she tried to force anger over her hurt.

Several long moments passed before Edith rose from her chair and headed towards the door. Suddenly, she turned back. "You must know how sorry I am for sending that letter, Mary. If I could send it again, I'd…" She paused, clearing her throat. "Well, I'd send it to someone who cared for you a bit more than the Turkish ambassador did."

The door shut behind her before Mary could even formulate a reply.

Feeling suddenly unsteady on her feet, she sank down at her dressing table – her eyes traveling to that top drawer. Before she could think better of it, she opened it and removed the square object, clutching it tightly to her.

Then, she fled the room, feeling not for the first time as if something was chasing her.

* * *

It was cooler outside now, though the air still felt heavy with the heat, weighing her hair down as even her fresh blouse now clung to her skin. She'd barely reached the door when it opened in anticipation of her knocking – and Moseley appeared, in his customary perpetual state of anxiety.

"Lady Mary," he greeted. "Is everything alright?"

Donning her brightest, most reassuring smile, she replied, "Of course!" She offered the object in her outstretched hand. "I was wondering if you might give this to—"

"Mary?"

Matthew had materialized behind the man, as if somehow summoned by her thoughts of him. Quickly, she hid the object behind her back, and her smile widened further. "Matthew! Hello! Don't worry – everything's fine!"

He seemed to have relaxed somewhat at her assurance. "What a relief! So…" His smile grew broader, as he seemed to almost lean against the doorframe, "what brings you here then?"

"Well, I just…wanted to tell you …" Her fingers twitched along the edge of the object. "That I've released Patrick from our arrangement."

This actually did seem to take him by surprise. "Oh? I must say I'm sorry to hear that," he said, more kindly than she deserved.

His gentleness almost undid her, and she was forced to hastily blurt out, "Yes, well I've bigger fish to fry. Perhaps I will meet someone in London!" She attempted her brightest smile, as she did her best to cover her anxiety with stupid jokes.

He looked down for a moment. "I've no doubt," he said, with a small smile.

"Who knows?" she continued, as blithely as she could. "Perhaps you will meet someone there as well, and all four of us might have a chance!"

With a brief smile, he then looked at her, seeming so utterly sincere in that moment. "I just…hope you find whatever it is that makes you happy, Mary. Really, that's all I want."

Nodding, she clenched her one hand tightly at her side.

"So, is that all?" His tone was conversational – as if nothing had happened. He'd accepted her unthinking untruths with ease, because he always wanted to think the best of her, no matter what…

The object had grown immeasurably heavier in her hand, which shook slightly as she brought it from around her back – extending the object towards him. "No…it isn't."

She felt his fingers touch hers, and she suppressed a shiver as she handed him the square envelope.

He looked down at it and up at her, now seemingly chuckling in confusion. "What's this?" The envelope was unaddressed, and as he turned it over, she remembered it was also unsealed.

Everything about her felt suspended in time – her mouth too parched to form speech, her hands too heavy to grab the envelope from him. All she could do was stare at him as he removed the folded paper, wanting to warn him, wanting to run, but unable to do either.

Instead she could only watch as his eyes moved over the paper, as his expression melted from confused curiosity to utter disbelief and horror. She found herself unable to even close her eyes in shame.

This is your punishment, she told herself. Too cowardly to even speak it aloud, she could only look at him as he silently discovered who she truly was.

"Say something…" she practically whispered.

His gaze was still fixed on the paper, though she knew he must've absorbed the truth by now – his eyes moving back and forth, back and forth as if he could not hear her. Finally, he looked directly at her - his mouth open slightly, the paper in his hand now trembling.

"But this…" he began, with an odd, shaky laugh. "It can't be true, Mary. You didn't…" His tone was more strident now. "Please just…tell me it's not true."

She wanted him to yell and curse at her – to tell her she was as worthless as she felt, not stand there like a gibbering idiot.

He needed not to look so pained or as heartbroken as she'd been when he'd left her on that year-ago summer day. As she'd been that same night, when she'd sat at her dressing table with pen and paper and written her beloved Matthew a brief story.

It was the world's oldest story, told in the first person, so he could see how much she had connected with the character. There was a dashing suitor and a fallen heroine and a plot twist worthy of one of her favorite novels.

A sordid penny dreadful with a terribly predictable ending – yet so engrossing that he apparently couldn't put it down – just kept reading it over and over…

Their eyes met for the briefest moment, almost as if he was aware of what she was planning. But before he could react, she pushed the door forward, closing it in front of him, and got away as fast as she could – as if she could escape the thing that she'd finally allowed to catch up with her.

No matter how much he might despise her, it couldn't possibly be more than she despised herself.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a moment right before they were to go over the top when everything was peaceful and still. It was as if their senses tricked them into a false sense of security, telling them that everything would be alright when their every instinct kept insisting it wasn't. That if they didn't have that moment, they would somehow absorb into the trench walls, too scared to ever show their faces in battle again.

But today, what should've been a moment had stretched from an instant to an hour, and Matthew kept waiting – waiting for that time where the calm would subside and the adrenaline would return.

Back and forth he went – back and forth from one end of his room to the other, the letter dangling precariously from his fingers. Only she would use the most beautiful writing to tell the most awful story – unimaginable, unthinkable and yet…

"Sir?"

Matthew's head snapped up – a soldier standing at attention. Though at this point, he had never felt less in command of anything.

"Are you alright, Sir?"

Matthew cracked an ironic smile at Moseley's unknowing question. "Quite," was his curt response.

"Your mother, Sir…" Moseley continued hesitantly. "She only wants to know if you're ready to leave for the Abbey?"

It was as if Moseley had tripped a wire, and the events of the afternoon came exploding into his memory in rapid succession: Sybil's return. Cousin Violet. Patrick. Mary—

"No," Matthew choked out – hastily closing the door without ceremony before he went back to pacing – back and forth, back and forth. The paper was thick and opaque – almost elegant. Only something so elegant could be so...

There was a sharply familiar knock at his door. "Matthew!"

His mother had now opened the door – obviously having no qualms about catching him in any state of undress. "The car will be here any minute." Then she stopped, with a judgmental furrowing of her brow. "Why aren't you ready?"

"Because I…" He swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. "I'm not going."

"What do you mean you're not going? Weren't you the one who said we both should—"

"I know what I said, Mother!" Indeed, he had told her how much her presence at this dinner would mean to him. Of course, at the time he thought he'd be saying goodbye to his cousins and his…friend…

He ran a hand over his face, clutching the letter behind his back. Just as she'd done, he thought – steeling himself against the wave of sickness that had washed over him at the memory.

"Well, I dare say you don't look ill to me." For an instant, his mother's gaze was concerned before it turned appraising. "How do you feel?"

He could feel the cool warmth of his skin, as sweat beaded on his brow, his chest constricting to the point where it almost hurt to breathe…

"I'm not well, Mother, I'm…not at all well." His voice practically broke, and he was forced to cover his mouth with the back of his hand – to contain the tears or bile that threatened to spill out.

"Would you like me to stay with you? I know you're due back tomorrow, and you're no good to them if you're ill—"

"Yes, I know!" he snapped, feeling sapped of all his energy. Then, he softened his tone a bit. His mother obviously didn't deserve this. "If you would just…go on without me, and…give them my regards…please?" His voice had practically dropped to a pathetic whisper.

She gave him that quizzical look she reserved for the times he knew she never quite believed him. "Of course, my dear," she said, her gaze still radiating uncertainty. With a small smile, she turned to leave. "By the way, what did Mary want earlier?"

He should've known he wouldn't have been so lucky as to completely escape his mother's scrutiny. "She…wanted me to know she'd ended her…arrangement with Patrick."

"Is that so? I wonder why it was so important for her to tell _you_." Her tone sounded almost innocent.

"Please, Mother," he implored – his attempt at laughter sounding almost pained, "that's…ancient history."

She merely looked at him in her inimitable way before finally leaving him in peace.

Sighing, his muscles gave out as he sank onto the edge of the bed, cradling the letter in his shaking hands. He'd read the words so often they'd almost lost meaning. All he could see was the thickness of the paper and the pen strokes of Mary's elegant hand.

_Ancient history._

Still, that calm, that constant unnerving calm remained ever present. He wanted the adrenaline to kick in, for _something _to overtake that gnawing anxiety that he feared might consume him before the day was done.

Bowing his head, he prayed for wisdom, for guidance, for strength. A sob silently shuddered through him, blurring yet another letter that had somehow decided his future without his knowledge or consent.

Impatiently, he waited for his emotions to fester and explode. _Something_ had to obliterate the crippling numbness, something had to make him feel…

Nothing.

* * *

The weather had cooled a bit the next morning when he stepped out of the house into the dimly lit dawn.

Predictably, he'd not slept well – his lack of feeling keeping him awake far more than any feeling ever could. At least a feeling he could name and express – but _this_ was unlike anything he'd ever felt.

All those times during battle when he'd wished he could've shut off his emotions, and of course, it had happened when he was nowhere near the front.

Yet, now he'd be leaving all this – leaving Downton to Patrick, and leaving Mary to…

Shaking his head, he continued down the walkway and out the gate. It was so early, he could spot the milk cart just down the street.

His kit bag was in hand, and her letter weighed heavily in his pocket. He hadn't wanted to take it, but he also hadn't wanted it discovered either. Not for the first time, he wondered why he hadn't simply tossed it into the fire, but…somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He turned toward the church almost involuntarily, pausing for a moment to reflect.

When he turned back, there she was.

"Good morning, Matthew." Her tone was almost hesitant.

His heart seemed to tighten at the sight of her looking so well, even at this early hour. Only the shadows under her eyes – perhaps from the early morning light – marred her appearance.

Suddenly, he forced himself to look away – it was too much to have her here, to see her like this, after all he felt and…_didn't_ feel.

"Why are you here, Mary?" he wondered, quietly – so it was practically a rhetorical question.

She didn't respond, which prompted him to turn back towards her. Her lips were parted slightly, as she met his eyes for a brief moment before glancing off to the side.

"Did something happen?" he asked, trying to ignore the sudden pang in his heart at seeing her appear the least bit distressed.

When Mary turned her head, her smile seemed almost sad. "It's Patrick…" she said, softly. "He's…missing."

"What?" He had not meant to sound so horrified as he took a small step in her direction. "What do you mean…missing?"

"He…he must've left the house sometime after dinner," Mary stated. "He had said he was tired…but we all thought he'd just gone up. " She glanced briefly down at her hands. "I was told they spent half the night looking for him, and…Papa was telephoning the constabulary when I left…"

"I see." Matthew let out a disbelieving breath, as the reason for her visit became uncomfortably apparent. "So, your father sent you?"

Her head jerked up sharply. "No…" Then she seemed to sense what he was asking, and she dipped her head as if chastened. "No, I wasn't even thinking…of that."

"How could you not?" he wanted to know. "Obviously, you know what happens if they can't find him."

"Of course I do." Mary sounded almost weary.

"And if he turns up?"

"Well, his records have yet to arrive, but now that even Edith is convinced…" Her voice seemed gentler as she spoke of her sister. Shrugging, she continued, "I suppose Papa will vouch for him now."

He exhaled in frustration. "I should just renounce the title immediately, and save you all the trouble." It was an empty threat, though. They both knew he couldn't renounce anything until Patrick was found._ If_ he was found…

Still, she nodded as if in agreement. "No one would possibly blame you after what's happened."

"That's not—" He blew out a breath, leaning back on his feet as if to pace where he stood. "You know I couldn't do that."

Leaving Downton without an heir…leaving them all in a constant state of uncertainty about their future. No, he wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

Mary's voice broke through his thoughts. "I suppose I am glad it was me who told you," she admitted, quietly. "I wouldn't want you to hate anyone else for this."

"I don't hate you," he said, surprising himself with the speed of his response.

"Please, you've no need to spare my feelings." Her voice was calm and steady – as if this was somehow fact.

That helpless numbness had returned – and he took several steps away from her. As he faced the church again, his eyes then moved to the cemetery, shuddering as a vision of her visiting him in a different context suddenly assaulted him.

"I don't hate you," he affirmed, turning back round. With a small smile, he added, "And I...I don't want our final words to be angry ones."

"Final words…" she repeated, uncertainly.

Before she could say anything further, he hastily added, "Yes, well you'll– let me know…about Patrick – well— I suppose your father will let me know."

She nodded, then said nothing for a moment.

"You must know how sorry I am." She paused, drawing in a breath. "I did…so hope we could've parted as friends."

"Are we no longer friends?" he asked – a sudden worry stabbing through the emotionless haze surrounding him.

Her lips had curved into a sad smile. "I don't see how we could be..."

"Don't, Mary – please…" he warned, backing further away from her as if to distance himself from her words. "I can't…I can't think of that right now."

The air between them once again grew still.

"Well, then…I won't keep you." Now her tone had turned curiously upbeat. "You must promise to write to us – we so rarely see your mother and I'm sure…the rest of the family would be so pleased to hear from you."

Her letter felt especially heavy in his pocket. "I…promise I'll try."

He then stared at her for a moment, moistening his lips, before he held out his hand. They'd shook hands long ago, in what seemed to be another life now – and it had been the beginning of an understanding between them. He only hoped she might recall the gesture for what he hoped it might be: a truce.

Mary first stared at his hand, and then up at him and then ever so slightly, she stepped forward, and gingerly took it.

The touch of her hand even through her thin glove seemed to infuse his body with warmth and he found himself holding on – long after he should've let go.

His eyes found hers, his lips parting slightly. Suddenly, her gaze seemed to soften. "Well,…goodbye, then." Her grip tightened. "And such good luck!" Before he quite realized what was happening, she'd leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek.

In that moment, something broke within him. The sublimated anxiety that had been building and building was overwhelmed by a surge of adrenaline. All the emotions he'd suppressed now flooded through him, practically consuming him. _If he never came back, if she met someone else, if they never had another chance…_

If this was the last time he ever saw her...

Swiftly, he turned his cheek more fully toward her, so his lips pressed briefly, fervently against hers.

He drew back before she did. Her eyes were closed, her lips still parted and his heart beat even faster as he tentatively placed his other hand around their still clasped ones. Her rapid breaths grew ever more shallow as she opened her eyes and her expression made his own breath catch in his throat.

"Oh, Matthew…" she sighed, glancing up at him with what seemed to be regret. "I know you can't mean that."

"I've always meant it." Daringly, he moved his thumb across her knuckles in a gentle caress.

"But after what I—"

"That doesn't matter." As he spoke, everything that had happened the previous evening – all he had felt and failed to feel – seemed to suddenly make sense.

"How can you say that?" she protested, her voice ringing with quiet desperation. "There are rumors in London – the Turkish ambassador knows. If it gets out, it will destroy Papa, not to mention the entire family!"

"And I might never see you again." Almost shyly, he met her eyes. "Believe me, it…doesn't matter now."

For a moment, it seemed she couldn't speak.

"Matthew…" Her hand landed lightly on his elbow – her tone somewhere between a plea and an admonishment.

Buoyed by her response and intoxicated by her touch, he gave her a hesitant smile. "Mary, I…I can't ask you to make any promises. But…if I make it back from the war in one piece…" He paused, lowering his voice, "then…I'd very much like to speak with your father, if I might."

He could feel her grip on his hand, and her smile broadened to a momentary grin. "_When_ you make it back from the war in one piece," was all she said.

"But if I don't—"

"We can discuss it _when_ you do." Her tone left no room for argument. Indeed, she'd never sounded more certain...

Of course, he'd been certain of her before, and all at once he was drawn back to another time when he thought her affections could never change. Though he now hoped there might've been more behind their conversation yesterday, he couldn't help but recall what she _had_ said.

Though the last thing he wanted to was to relive the past, he forced himself to voice his greatest fear: "But…what about Patrick?" Even one of her most endearing patented looks did nothing to assuage his anxiety. "If Patrick returns, and if I make it back—"

"_When_ you make it back." She'd squeezed his hand every time she corrected him.

"…I'm afraid I must go back to living on my wits."

"In Manchester." Her voice was low.

He nodded, the implication going unspoken between them for now.

Mary's gaze dropped to where he still clasped her hand. He saw her rub her lips together before she raised her head once more. "Your mother," she began, as if this was an entirely different conversation. "She still has friends down there, surely?"

"I…suppose so," was his uncertain response.

Nodding, she continued, "And you have family there?"

"A…few, scattered here and there. Mostly in the surrounding towns." His brow furrowed, still at a loss as to what she was implying.

She made a brief noise of assent, and he could feel her fingers skimming lightly across his palm. "Do you think cousin Isobel might wish to pay them a visit?" Her expression was still unreadable, as she added "And perhaps she…might like some company when she does?"

Now all he could do was gaze helplessly at her – his lips parted, his hands unconsciously tightening around hers. "You don't mean…" he asked on a barely audible gasp. "Mary…"

He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen her look so sweetly sincere, even as her lips seemed to twitch with mirth. "Well, if you intend to speak with my father, I do think it's only fair that I should meet some of your relations."

Unfortunately, the idea of Mary meeting his family only served as one more reminder of how she'd be surrendering her own life, and guilt pricked at his conscience once more. "No – I…I can't ask you to leave your home," he said, glancing briefly down at their clasped hands. "I'd stay for you – God knows I would, but if Patrick comes back…"

Mary gave him the barest nod. "You must take charge of your own life again – and I quite agree." Hearing his unthinking words repeated back to him only reminded him of where they'd been a year ago. Then he felt her hand grasping his as firmly as she'd ever done. "But if _you_ must, then so must I."

Her determined smile practically shone with warmth, and he glanced down at their joined hands. "But to leave Downton…" he finally ventured in disbelief before raising his eyes to hers. "When it's…what you've always wanted?"

"If it's what I've always wanted…" Her fingertips daringly brushed against the side of his face – his eyes closing at her unexpected touch. "Then why does it no longer matter?"

All he could do now was hold her gaze – breathless and smiling and, were it not for the milk cart pulling up behind them, he might've kissed her again. Instead, he brought her hand up to his lips, cradled gently between his own, and kissed it almost reverently.

"Will you write to me?" Matthew's voice was barely above a whisper – forcing the words over the question he longed to ask.

She gave him what seemed a skeptical raise of her eyebrows. "I'd have thought you would've had quite enough of my letters." Then her lips twitched slightly. "After all, who knows what I'll say in them?"

"Who indeed?" he murmured, before bashfully clearing his throat. "But in the meantime, you must go on with your life."

"Well, I thought I might go up to London," she mused, with what seemed a hastily concealed smile. "I was planning to meet someone there in a few months."

"Quite right too." He gazed into her lovely eyes, and all he could see was the promise of his next leave. "Perhaps I will meet someone there, as well."

Her lips were already curving up into a smile, despite her best intentions. "Well, then. Perhaps we will see each other!"

"And…would that make you happy?"

"Yes," she said, without hesitation.

He smiled at her until she dipped her head – a gentle blush coloring her cheeks. Then he lightly touched her arm and when she looked up again, her eyes were sparkling back at him.

The milkman was leaving Crawley House now – and appeared to be staring in their direction. Matthew turned back towards Mary, and both smiled to each other, slightly embarrassed at being so surreptitiously observed. Their laughter then mingled quietly together in the early morning, as if they were sharing a secret.

The End.

* * *

_A/N: Many grateful thanks to all who've been so generous as to leave feedback!_

_Special thanks to:_

_OrangeShipper, for her constant support and enthusiasm, both in general and on Tumblr._

_smndolphin, whose gentle prodding gave me the push I needed months ago to make this idea into a fic._

_Chickwriter, who rescued this story by missing her stop and who ceaselessly, selflessly and generously promoted it, both in her own work and on her Tumblr._

_I am humbled by and grateful for the support of this wonderful fandom. Thank you all so much!_


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